THE 

SACRIFICE  OF  SILENCE 


BY 

EDOUARD  ROD 

TRANSLATED    BY 

JOHN  W.  HARDING 


"Are  there  not  cases  when  thanks  to  the 
aberrations  of  the  social  organization  and  to 
social  prejudices,  lying,  deceit  and  hypocrisy 
almost  become  virtues?  Are  there  not  cases 
when  recourse  to  base  actions  is  so  painful  that 
to  perpetrate  them  may  be  the  most  heroic  of 
sacrifices?" — Page  17. 


MS? 


NEW    YORK 
G.    W.   D tiling /i am    Co.,    Publishers 

MDCCCXCIX. 


Copyright  1899,  by 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY. 

\All rights  reserved.'^ 


The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 


TQ 


o 

'7 

'■/t^ 

CONTENTS. 

PART    I. 

PACK 

A  Conversation    .... 

.           13 

PART    II. 

A  History — Kermoysan 

0        21 

PART    III. 

Another  Conversation 

.   it;o 

PART    IV. 

Another  History— To  the  End  of  the  Fault.   164 
M.  de  Sourbelles's  Love  Tragedy        .         .185 

Epilogue 222 

[5] 


PREFACE. 


Emerson  somewhere,  and  truly,  observes  that 
there  is  a  strange  power  in  silence.  But  there 
are  many  kinds  of  silence.  This  has  been  tritely 
attested  from  time  immemorial  by  axioms  and 
epigrams  laudatory  of  timely  mutism  as  being  at 
once  one  of  the  virtues  of  the  wise,  the  ornament 
and  safeguard  of  the  ignorant,  and  an  efficacious 
element  of  repute,  whether  deserved  or  not. 
Then  there  is  that  silence,  "  the  child  of  love, 
which  expresses  everything  and  proclaims  more 
loudly  than  tongue  is  able  to  do;"  which  is  "  the 
ecstatic  bliss  of  souls  that  by  intelligence  con- 
verse." 

The  particular  phases  of  silence  of  which  M. 
Rod  treats  have  nothing  in  common  with  these, 
save  incidentally  with  that  which  is  the  so  elo- 
quent offspring  of  love.  He  shows,  with  con- 
summate art  and  in  two  widely  contrasting  ex- 
amples, that  silence  under  certain  conditions 
constitutes  an  heroic  sacrifice,  so  generous  in  its 
abnegation,  and  in  one  case,  in  which  the  un- 
blemished reputation  of   a  wife  and  mother  is 

[7] 


8  Preface, 

involved,  so  unflinchingly  steadfast,  as  to  impart 
a  character  of  nobleness  and  grandeur  to  the  sin 
of  prohibited  love  and  its  inevitable  accompani- 
ments, lying,  deceit  and  hypocrisy. 

Whether  Andre  Kermoysan  and  Mme.  Hfr- 
DEViN  succumbed  to  the  passion  they  mutually 
inspired,  which  at  immensurable  sacrifice  they 
masked  from  the  world,  and  whose  secret  they 
carried  with  them  into  that  dread  and  most  mys- 
terious of  all  silences,  the  silence  of  the  tomb,  is 
a  moot  question  that  is  left  for  the  reader  to  de- 
cide for  himself. 

The  case  of  Mme.  H and  M.  de  Sour- 
belles  is  an  entirely  different  one.  They  capitu- 
lated to  their  mad  love  without  resistance,  in  open 
defiance  of  the  conventions.  Spurned  by  the 
world  whose  moral  laws  they  outraged,  bound 
together  by  their  common  fault,  by  a  bond 
"  stronger  than  any  invented  by  man,"  they  iso- 
lated themselves,  caring  for  nothing,  desiring 
nothing  but  each  other's  society,  to  be  all  in  all 
to  each  other.  But  in  due  course  the  tie  which 
might  not  be  severed  became  a  shackle,  weari- 
some, irksome,  insupportable;  their  paradise  was 
transformed  into  a  hell  of  dead  love,  dead  senti- 
ment, and  remorse.  It  was  in  these  circum- 
stances that  the  sacrifice  of  silence  was  made  and 
stoically  borne  by  each.  Their  life  was  a  terri- 
ble lie.  They  endeavored  with  the  cunning  of 
despair  to  conceal  from  each  o":her  their  inward 
martyrdom,  and  played  the  comedy  of  an  endur- 


Preface.  9 

ing  affection  until  death  tragically  rang  down 
the  curtain. 

The  "  Sacrifice  of  Silence  "  is  a  psychological 
study  of  great  power  and  is  unique  in  that  the 
heart  of  man  is  the  subject.  The  heart  of  wo- 
man has  been  laid  bare,  dissected,  analysed  by 
psychologists  of  all  times — and  it  remains  as 
much  an  enigma  as  ever.  But  in  this  fascinating 
pursuit  the  enigmatical  heart  of  man  has  been 
largely  overlooked.  M.  Rod  has  taken  it  in  hand, 
subjected  it  to  a  microscopical  examination,  and 
sets  forth  in  masterful  manner  what  his  re- 
searches have  revealed. 

The  success  of  his  efforts  was  instantaneous 
and  striking  in  France,  where  the  book  has  gone 
through  many  editions.  During  his  recent  so- 
journ in  this  country,  which  he  visited  for  the 
purpose  of  lecturing  in  the  principal  universities 
and  colleges,  M.  Rod  frequently  intimated  tome 
in  discussing  his  literary  work  that  he  considered 
this  novel  to  be  the  best  he  had  written.  I  have 
endeavored  to  preserve  the  author's  style  as 
closely  as  the  exigencies  of  translation  would  per- 
mit. For  the  adaptation  of  M.  Rod's  verse  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Stanhope  Sams. 

It  may  not  be  out  of  place  in  this  preface  to 
retrace  briefly  M.  Rod's  literary  career.  He  is 
forty  years  of  age,  and  was  born  at  Nyon,  in  the 
canton  of  Vaud,  Switzerland.  He  studied  at  the 
Universities  of  Berne  and  Berlin,  giving  especial 
attention  to  philology,  He  then  went  to  Paris  and 


lO  Preface, 

devoted  himself  to  literary  criticism.  By  his  con- 
tributions to  the  leading  newspapers  and  reviews 
he  soon  established  a  reputation  as  a  writer  of 
considerable  erudition,  gifted  with  a  peculiarly 
graceful  style.  He  was  a  warm  admirer  of 
Emile  Zola,  and  in  1880  published  a  pamphlet 
entitled  "  A  propos  de  I'assommoir,"  in  which  he 
defended  that  high  priest  of  reahsm  with  skill 
and  conviction,  and  was  violently  attacked  for 
his  pains. 

This  pamphlet  was  followed  by  other  critical 
essays  that  were  published  in  volume  form,  no- 
table among  them  being  "  Wagner  et  I'esthe- 
tique  allemande."  M.  Rod  is  a  enthusiastic  sub- 
scriber to  the  great  German  composer's  musical 
theories.  Other  well-known  works  of  criticism 
byM.  Rod  include"  Le  developpement  du  mythe 
d'Eschyle  dans  la  Htterature,"  "  Giacomo  Leo- 
pardi,"  "  Dante,"  "  Goethe,"  and  "  Stendhal." 

But  it  is  as  a  novelist  that  he  is  best  known  to 
the  general  public  of  both  hemispheres.  His 
novels  are  mainly  of  a  psychological  character 
and  many  of  them  are  markedly  pessimistic  in 
tone.  M.  Rod  has  been  an  assiduous  student  of 
Schopenhauer.  His  first  volume  of  fiction  was 
published  in  188 1.  It  was  entitled  "  Palmyra 
Veulard."  Then  in  succession  came  "  La  Chute 
de  Miss  Topsy,"  "  L'Autopsie  du  Docteur  Z," 
"  La  Femme  d'Henri  Vanneau,"  •'  La  Course  a 
la  mort,"  "  Tatiana  Leiloff,"  "  Le  Sens  dela  vie," 
"  Les  Trois  Coeurs,"  "  La  Sacrifice,"  »  La  Vie 


Preface.  1 1 

privee  de  Michel  Tessier "  (which  has  been 
dramatised),  "  La  Seconde  Vie  de  Michel  Tes- 
sier," "Les  Roches  Blanches,"  "  Dernier  Refuge," 
"  Le  menage  du  Pasteur  Naudie,"  "  La  Haut," 
and  "  Le  Silence,"  which  is  herewith  presented 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence." 

In  1884  M.  Rod  with  a  few  other  ambitious 
young  litterateurs  founded  the  Revue  Contempo- 
raitie.  In  1887  he  was  appointed  professor  of 
comparative  literature  at  the  University  of  Ge- 
neva, but  soon  returned  to  Paris  to  resume  his 
career  as  critic  and  novelist  with  the  result  that 
he  has  won  to  the  front  rank  of  contemporaneous 
writers. 

JOHN  W.  HARDING. 


THE 

SACRIFICE  OF  SILENCE. 


PART  I. 

A  CONVERSATION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  after  one  of  those  dinners  which  pe- 
riodically reunite  men  of  various  professions,  old 
school  or  college  chums  separated  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  life,  yet  among  whom  the  tie  of  boyhood 
memories  subsists  and  who  meet  again  with  pleas- 
ure. Coffee  and  cigars  were  being  enjoyed. 
The  conversation,  after  having  touched  upon 
several  subjects,  had  turned  to  the  discussion  of 
a  rather  curious  newspaper  item.  A  man  well 
known  in  society.,circles,whose  name,  I  think,  was 
M,  de  Prefontaine,  had  been  taken  home  with  a 
knife  stab  in  the  abdomen.  After  lingering  for 
three  days  he  had  expired  without  having  ut- 
tered a  single  word  that  could  throw  any  light 
upon  the  tragedy,  although  he    was  fully  cou- 

[13] 


14  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

scious  to  the  last  and  a  clever  examining  magis- 
trate had  tried  every  possible  means  to  induce 
him  to  explain  how  he  came  by  his  fatal  wound. 

At  first  each  member  of  the  company  judged 
this  determined  obstinacy  according  to  his  own 
temperament.  In  some  it  excited  admiration; 
others  expressed  the  view  that  it  was  a  little  too 
heroic. 

"Well,  had  I  been  in  his  place  I  should  have 
told  everything,"  said  a  celebrated  novelist. 

"What  for?"  asked  somebody.  "The  con- 
fession would  not  have  saved  him." 

"No,  but  it  would  have  relieved  him,"  con- 
cluded the  novelist,  accentuating  his  Southern 
accent. 

Thereupon  conjectures  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
secret  thus  preserved  by  the  victim's  tragic  si- 
lence were  indulged  in.  Then  everybody  being 
agreed  that  it  was  an  affair  of  conjugal  ven- 
geance we  fell  to  discussing  the  right  to  exercise 
vengeance.  We  soon  wearied  of  this  common- 
place theme,  however,  and  then  the  conversation 
became  affined,  was  monopolised  by  the  more 
subtle  among  us,  who  began  a  discussion  upon 
the  essence,  as  it  were,  of  irregular  liaisons. 

A  first  point  was  established  without  giving  rise 
to  serious  contestation :  that  marriage  is  a  defective 
institution,  altogether  inadequate  to  regulate  the 
relations  between  the  sexes.  Its  suppression  was 
proposed;  but  in  seeking  the  means  to  accom- 
plish this  reform  it  was  found  that  marriage  being 


A  Conversation.  15 

the  corner  stone  of  the  social  edifice,  it  could  not  be 
destroyed  without  overturning  the  whole  organ- 
isation of  the  world :  the  family,  property,  etc. ; 
and  even  the  boldest  admitted  that  such  a  revo- 
lution presented  practical  difficulties  calculated 
to  put  an  end  to  the  good  will  of  the  legislative 
powers  for  a  very  long  time.  The  conversa- 
tion came  near  being  dropped  at  this  discovery 
which  brought  home  to  us  the  inutility  of  our 
observations.  As  sometimes  happens,  how- 
ever, among  persons  who,  although  having  noth- 
ing to  say,  are  absolutely  bent  upon  talking, 
it  revived,  and  one  of  us  perpetrated  the  fol- 
lowing paradox : 

"Marriage  cannot  be  accepted  and  respected 
by  the  dry  hearted,  the  indifferent,  the  luke- 
warm, who  live  without  the  need  of  love,  and 
who  consequently  know  nought  of  devotion,  for- 
getfulness  of  self,  exaltation,  in  short,  all  those 
extreme  sentiments  by  which  the  soul  can  be 
ennobled.  There  is  a  normal  state  only  for  the 
egotists  and  the  soulless :  it  is  they  who,  being  the 
great  majority,  have  succeeded  in  making  their 
dull  conception  of  life  and  their  cold  canalisa- 
tion of  love  prevail,  and  in  imposing  it  even  upon 
the  best  among  us,  who  have  been  so  weak  as 
to  conform  thereto.  So  that  to-day  one  con- 
siders one  fulfills  one's  duty  by  renouncing  love, 
which  is  the  ideal,  in  favor  of  marriage,  which 
is  the  negation  of  the  ideal." 

These  remarks,  emphasized  by  a  tone  of  semi- 


1 6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

banter,  met  with  some  approval;  but  a  grave 
voice  replied: 

"No,  the  noblest  are  not  those  who  avoid  this 
legal  yoke  of  marriage  in  order  to  give  a  free 
rein  to  their  instincts.  They  are  those  who  hav- 
ing recognized  its  inadequacy  nevertheless  ac- 
cept it,  not  through  weakness  nor  through  dry- 
ness of  soul,  but  through  a  spirit  of  justice  and 
sacrifice.  You  speak  of  devotion:  is  there  more 
devotion  in  following  the  impulses  of  one's  heart 
than  in  resisting  them  to  the  profit  of  the  word 
given  and  of  a  being  to  whom  one  has  bound 
one's  self?  No  doubt  the  best  are  rarely  exempt 
from  the  temptations  of  illegitimate  desires, 
which  are  always  excused,  or  which  it  is  sought 
to  excuse,  by  a  thousand  specious  arguments; 
but  they  resist  them,  they  overcome  them,  and 
their  soul,  so  far  from  losing  thereby,  gains  at 
once  in  strength  and  tenderness.  And  really, 
if  it  existed  but  to  teach  self-denial  to  a  few  se- 
lect individuals,  marriage  would  have  its  grand- 
eur and  reason  for  being." 

This  stoical  declaration  was  approved,  like 
the  preceding  one  which  it  contradicted.  For 
such  are  intelligent  men :  through  understanding 
everything  they  get  so  that  they  cease  to  make 
distinctions;  indifference  renders  them  versatile 
in  suchwise  that  they  readily  change  their  opinion 
upon  questions  which  they  take  up  only  with 
their  mind  and  which  can  be  solved  only  by 
character. 


A  Conversation,  17 

One  of  us,  entering  into  the  views  of  the  first 
speaker  and  following  up  his  argument,  added : 

"In  any  case,  there  is  in  irregular  liaisons  an 
inevitable  defect  which  makes  them  particu- 
larly odious:  they  are  condemned  to  lying,  de- 
ceit, and  hypocrisy.  That  alone,  it  seems  to  me, 
would  render  them  prohibitory  to  hearts  of  any 
dehcacy,  to  persons  of  exalted  mind." 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  responded  some  one  with 
great  vivacity.  "Are  there  not  then  cases  when, 
thanks  to  the  aberrations  of  the  social  organiza- 
tion and  to  social  prejudices,  lying,  deceit 
and  hypocrisy  almost  become  virtues  ?  Are 
there  not  cases  when  recourse  to  base  actions 
is  so  painful  that  to  perpetrate  them  may  be 
the  most  heroic  of  sacrifices  ?".... 

Protests  interrupted  the  speaker,  for  the  aus- 
tere words  he  had  uttered  inclined  us  to  be  vir- 
tuous. But  our  companion  continued  with  grow- 
ing animation  (perhaps,  I  thought,  because  he 
was  defending  a  personal  cause) : 

"No,  no,  dissimulation  and  lying  are  not  al- 
ways debasing;  it  does  happen,  on  the  contrary, 
that  they  exalt  and  ennoble  like  everything  that 
impels  us  to  a  great  expenditure  of  internal  en- 
ergy. To  love  and  suffer  in  silence — do  you  not 
understand  what  that  may  sometimes  mean  ?  I 
have  not,  of  course,  in  mind  those  vulgar  liaisons 
which  have  no  other  object  than  a  mediocre 
sensuousness,  like  those  that  are  currently  formed 
■between  insignificant   and   corrupt   individuals; 


1 8  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

but  a  true  love  which  fills  the  entire  being,  which 
engrosses,  absorbs,  exalts  it,  which  makes  it 
better,  which  occupies  of  itself  the  whole  heart, 
the  whole  intelligence,  one  of  those  amours  in- 
finitely rare,  infinitely  precious,  which  are  life's 
most  beautiful  flower, — and  which  never,  never 
can  be  avowed!  Try  to  measure  the  strength 
necessary  to  prevent  it  from  betraying  itself  by 
a  word,  by  a  gesture,  by  a  look!  Calculate  the 
heroism  which  sacrifices  its  free  and  proud  ex- 
pression to  the  laws,  conventions  and  usages  of 
a  world  to  which  it  is  a  thousand  times  superior. 
When  this  love  goes  through  one  of  those  crises 
in  which  the  heart  is  breaking,  in  which  cries 
rise  to  the  lips  and  choking  sobs  to  the  throat, 
yet  all  of  which  must  be  suppressed — think  what 
in  such  a  moment  the  mask  of  indifference  costs, 
think  of  the  tortures  it  hides.  Tell  me  if  then  the 
hypocrisy  of  silence,  the  lie  of  the  quiet,  calm 
voice,  the  dissimulation  of  living  the  life  that 
others  live  do  not  constitute  a  sacrifice,  too,  the 
most  painful  that  one  can  exact  of  a  man  and, 
consequently,  the  most  noble  ?" 

Developed  as  it  was  with  somewhat  feverish 
conviction  this  thesis  fotmd  some  supporters  and 
the  discussion  between  the  adversaries  and  par- 
tisans of  established  institutions  waxed  animated. 
But  I  ceased  to  take  part  in  it,  and  even  to  listen 
to  it.  The  captious  affirmation  of  the  last  in- 
terlocutor, debatable  most  certainly,,  paradoxical 
and  dangerous  as  it  was,  had  awakened  within 


A  Convei^sation.  19 

me  a  memory  that  time  had  almost  effaced: 
that  of  a  secret  surprised  one  day,  or  at  least 
perceived,  through  a  series  of  details  so  tenuous 
that  hitherto  it  had  seemed  to  me  impossible  to 
assemble  and  formulate  them.  And  now  my 
mania  of  a  literary  man,  excited  by  the  conversa- 
tion I  have  just  recounted,  began  to  work  upon 
these  details  of  which  the  almost  unseizable 
ensemble  appeared  suddenly  to  me  as  a  sort  of 
illustration  of  the  theory  that  was  being  dis- 
cussed around  me.  Instinctively  I  sought  to  deter- 
mine them,  to  group  them,  to  impart  to  them  the 
form  of  a  narrative.  It  was  a  very  difficult  task. 
In  effect,  I  knew  almost  nothing  about  the  his- 
tory on  which  my  thoughts,  were  dwelling.  I 
could  not  admit  that  it  had  existed  only  in  my 
imagination;  but  in  any  case  I  had  seen  but  a 
few  moments  of  it,  those  which  by  their  in- 
tensity had  forced  the  principals  of  the  adven- 
ture to  exert  all  their  strength  of  will  to  remain 
impassible.  Definitions  and  transitions  were 
entirely  lacking.  What,  then,  was  I  to  do  in  or- 
der to  grasp  the  facts  and  then  set  them  forth 
in  an  intelligible  manner? 

On  reflection,  I  concluded  that  the  easiest  and 
best  thing  to  do  was  to  present  personages  and 
things  as  I  had  seen  them,  and  without  essaying 
to  fill  by  artificial  means  the  gaps  left  by  direct 
observation,  offer  only  my  hypotheses  as  circum- 
stances evoked  them  and  exactly  as  they  should 
be  formed  in  my  mind.     It  is  thus  that  I  wrote 


20  The  Sacj'ifice  of  Silence. 

the  following  pages.  If  I  manage  to  get  my  im- 
pressions shared  and  to  inspire  the  emotion  which 
in  spite  of  their  intermittent  uncertainty,  ob- 
scurity and  incoherence  the  events  related  oc- 
casioned me  at  the  time  of  their  occurrence  I 
shall  perchance  be  excused  for  departing  from 
the  usual  methods  of  the  story  teller.  Has  this 
intuition  been  true  or  false  in  its  deductions  ?  I 
do  not  know ;  but  even  from  the  distance  at  which 
I  review  the  facts  they  appear  to  me  as  signifi- 
cant as  they  did  at  the  time  they  impressed  me. 


PART  II. 

A  HISTORY — KERMOYSAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  first  place  it  behooves  me  to  evoke  two 
of  the  rarest  figures  it  has  been  my  good  fortune 
to  encounter. 

One  of  the  first  drawing  rooms  that  I  fre- 
quented when  I  entered  society  was  that  of  Mme. 

B .     It  was  a  most  interesting  centre  where 

in  a  milieu  of  quiet  and  rather  old  fashioned 
elegance  the  intimate  friends  of  the  hostess  gath- 
ered one  night  each  week,  forming  a  compact 
nucleus  around  which  passed  a  large  number 
of  people  of  all  sorts,   mostly  celebrated      At 

the  time  I  made  her  acquaintance  Mme.  B 

was  nearly  seventy  years  of  age.  She  was  one 
of  those  who  make  the  most  of  life.  She  knew 
how  to  grow  old:  her  last  trait  of  coquettishness 
was  to  admit  her  age.  She  bore  it  as  proudly 
as  she  bore  her  white  hair,  and  was  imbued  with 
the  sentiments  of  her  years — kindness,  indul- 
gence and  a  delicate  comprehension,  with  the  re- 
sult that  the  youngest  of  her  intimates  treated  her 
with  that  affectionate  deference  which  superior 


22  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

old  people  alone  inspire  in  those  who  surround 
them.  Mme.  B took  a  fancy  to  me,  doubt- 
less owing  to  my  extreme  naivete,  and  without 
appearing  to  do  so,  so  that,  at  the  time  I  had  not 
even  a  suspicion  of  the  service  she  was  rendering 
me,  she  sought  to  teach  me  to  note  and  guide  my 
sympathies. 

For  several  weeks,  which  later  she  smiling 
referred  to  as  my  period  of  probation,  she  re- 
ceived me  only  in  the  afternoon,  at  tea  time,  and 
thus  I  passed  many  hours  listening  to  the  tittle- 
tattle  of  the  amiable  women  who  called  upon  her, 
and  learning  to  dissemble  any  astonishment.  I 
might  feel  and  to  overcome  my  too  obvious  in- 
genuousness. When  she  judged  that  I  had  made 
such  progress  that  I  should  not  cut  a  too  ridicu- 
lous figure  in  her  drawing  room  she  finally  in- 
vited me  to  her  Tuesday  soirees.  It  was  with 
no  little  emotion  that  I  made  my  real  debut  in 
society,  for  my  timidity  was  extreme,  and  for 
that  matter  it  was  justified.  I  felt  awkward  in- 
deed in  this  little  circle  where  reigned  at  one 
and  the  same  time  the  ease  of  intimacy  and  the 
distinction  of  witty  repartee.  The  very  even- 
ing   that    I    entered  it  for  the  first  time  Mme. 

B came  to  me  in  a  window  recess  where  I 

had  taken  refuge  and  pointing  out  two  persons 
who  were  conversing  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
apart  from  the  other  groups,  said : 

"Those  are  the  most  perfect  beings  I  know." 
As  can  be  imagined,  this  admiring  verdict  of 


A  History — Kerfnoysan.  23 

a  judge  who  was  so  hard  to  please  excited  my 
curiosity  in  the  highest  degree.  First  of  all  I 
gazed  from  a  distance  at  these  persons  whose 
superiority,  which  I  accepted  without  question, 
even  as  a  dogma,  filled  me  with  awe.  Then, 
managing  to  overcome  my  timidity  I  sought  to 
get  a  nearer  view  of  them.  I  succeeded;  but  in 
my  eyes  they  continued  to  preserve  the  sort  of 

aureola  with  which  Mme.  B 's  tribute  had 

nimbussed  them,  and  it  was  doubtless  because 
they  were  together  when  I  first  saw  them  that 
I  came  to  unite  them  more  closely  in  my  thoughts. 

Although  many  years  have  elapsed  since  he 
disappeared,  the  man,  Andre  Kermoysan,  has 
by  no  means  been  forgotten.  The  novels  of  this 
naval  officer,  who,  before  Loti,  made  exotism 
fashionable,  are  still  read,  and  his  fine  intense 
drama  Lautrec,  as  is  well  known,  still  holds  its 
place  in  the  repertory  of  the  Comedie-Francaise. 

At  the  time  when  Mme.  B first  called  my 

attention  to  him  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  popu- 
larity and  success.  His  name  was  in  everybody's 
mouth  and  his  books  were  in  everybody's  hands. 
As  to  the  author  himself,  the  interest  he  excited 
was  the  keener  from  the  fact  that  he  was  rarely 
seen  in  society. 

He  was  about  thirty- eight  years  old.  His 
close  cut  hair  and  slight  moustache  were  pre- 
maturely gray  and  contrasted  with  the  per- 
sistent youthfulness  of  his  calm,  handsome  face, 
which  was  of  semi-transparent  whiteness  with 


24  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

regular  features.  His  bright,  soft,  light  brown 
eyes  imparted  to  his  physiognomy  an  expres- 
sion of  almost  feminine  tenderness.  In  his 
manners,  his  movements  of  slightly  indolent 
gracefulness,  his  few  and  harmonious  gestures, 
in  his  remarks  also,  and  even  in  his  deep  voice 
were  extreme  reserve,  but  so  discreet  that 
one  could  not  have  told  whether  it  was  nat- 
ural, or  clever  affectation.  Of  perfect  politeness 
although  he  made  no  advances,  and  of  an  amia- 
bility in  which  was  a  good  deal  of  forced  benevo- 
lence, he  never  gave  himself  away.  One  could 
treat  with  him  upon  subjects  of  the  most  diverse 
character,  and  yet  after  a  long  conversation  to 
which  he  would  lend  himself  with  the  best  grace 
in  the  world,  one  left  him  without  having  gained 
an5^hing  of  his  confidence  or  friendship.  The 
sympathy  which  at  first  sight  he  almost  invari- 
ably inspired  went  out  to  him  only  to  return, 
not  deceived,  but  rejected.  One  felt  that  one 
was  kept  at  a  distance,  in  spite  of  the  kindness 
of  his  reception,  by  an  invisible,  indefinable  ob- 
stacle that  separated  one  from  him. 

I  was  introduced  to  M.  Kermoysan.  He  exam- 
ined me  for  an  instant  with  his  bright  eyes, 
spoke  to  me,  listened  to  me,  and  even  appeared 
to  take  an  interest  in  my  debuts,  with  as  much 
interest  as  he  could  take  in  anything.  When 
he  perceived  that  I  psrsistently  sought  his  society 
he  invited  me  to  call  upon  him.  Although  I 
could  see  that  this  invitation,  which  was    any- 


A  History — Kermoysan.  25 

thing-  but  a  pressing  one,  cost  him  an  effort,  I 
could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  profiting  by  it. 
He  received  me  with  his  customary  politeness, 
which  appeared  to  me  to  become  more  cordial,  so 
that  I  thought  I  might,  without  too  much  indis- 
cretion, repeat  my  visit  several  times,  at  intervals 
that  became  gradually  shorter. 

He  lived  in  the  Rue  Oudinot  in  a  little  entresol 
that  was  filled  with  treasures  he  had  brought 
back  from  his  voyages — a  collection  of  arms  from 
the  East,  painted  marble  idols  from  India,  and 
especially  stuffs,  sumptuous  stuffs  which  re- 
flected the  light  and  presented  to  the  eye  a  cha- 
toyante  harmony  of  colors.  The  windows  opened 
upon  a  tranquil  landscape  of  gardens  in  which 
old-fashioned  flowers  nodded  in  the  breeze  and 
age-worn  trees  o'ershadowed  them.  An  old 
servant  named  Adolphe,  ex-valet  of  an  Ambas- 
sador of  the  Second  Empire,  did  all  the  house- 
hold work,  including  the  cooking.  Between  mas- 
ter and  man  there  was  a  perfect  understanding. 
Adolphe  knew  his  master's  wants  and  few  in- 
structions were  necessary. 

M.  Kermoysan  was  always  at  home.  Once 
and  once  only  I  found  him  at  work.  I  was  about 
to  withdraw,  but  he  requested  me  to  remain. 
He  threw  aside  his  pen  and  seemed  delighted 
at  havi:ig  a  pretext  to  interrupt  his  labor. 

"I  am  V  ry  lazy  these  times,"  he  said.  "Stay, 
I  b?g,  and  let  us  talk;  it  is  easier." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Adolphe,  solemn-looking 


26  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

in  spite  of  the  white  apron  he  wore  all  the  morn- 
ing, shook  his  gray  head  sadly. 

That  day  M.  Kermoysan  was  more  cordial, 
more  expansive  than  usual.  He  talked  to  me 
about  a  love  story  upon  which  he  was  working — 
"when  I  can  work,"  he  added.  He  related  the 
plot  and  sketched  the  characters  of  it  with  some 
animation.  I  ventured  a  few  observations,  to 
which  he  responded.  Then  little  by  little  his 
attention  relaxed,  and  his  entrain  disappeared. 
It  was  thus  that  all  our  talks  ended.  He  listened 
to  me,  and  answered  me,  but  he  was  always 
thinking  of  something  else.  Sometimes  I  imag- 
ined I  could  read  on  his  brow  and  in  his  eyes 
that  obstinate,  ever-present,  ever-uppermost, 
thought,  like  a  phrase  written  in  unknown  letters, 
in  a  foreien  tongue.  I  was  wounded  in  the  en- 
thusiastic  friendship  I  entertained  for  him  al- 
though I  had  never  dared  to  manifest  it,  and  I 
told  myself  that  this  mysterious  thought,  which 
I  could  not  decipher,  would  be  an  obstacle 
between  us  even  were  he,  in  consideration  of  my 
sympathy,  to  forget  the  difference  between  our 
ages  and  positions. 

The  person  who  was  conversing  with  M.  Ker- 
moysan the  day  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  at 
Mme.  B 's  was  a  woman  still  young,  al- 
though not  in  the  first  bloom  of  youthfulness, 
whose  name  was  Mme.  Herdevin.  She  was  tall, 
of  almost  exaggerated  slenderness,  very  elegant 
and   handsome.     Her   beauty   however   was   of 


A  History — Kei'inoysaii.  2"] 

the  kind  that  does  not  strike  one  at  first  sight; 
that  has  to  be  discovered  and  is  difficult  to  de- 
scribe. Besides,  time  has  effaced  its  traits  from 
my  memory.  They  still  linger  in  my  mind,  no 
doubt,  but  vaguely,  indistinctly,  in  a  flou  of  lines 
and  colors  like  that  of  the  faces  of  saints  on  the 
frescoes  of  old  convents.  The  sheen  of  her 
golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  the  Grecian  style, 
alone  appears  with  anything  approaching  clear- 
ness ;  the  rest  escapes  me,  like  so  many  other 
visages  death  has  veiled. 

I  remember  that  when  Mme.  B pointed 

Kermoysan  and  Mme.  Herdevin  out  to  me  as 
they  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  salon,  I  observed 
them  at  first  from  a  distance;  then  I  gradually 
drew  nearer  to  them,  after  the  manner  of  a 
timid  and  inquisitive  child.  Mme.  Herdevin 
was  listening:  her  physiognomy  expressed  a 
sustained,  exclusive  attention,  which  seemed  to 
isolate  her,  so  to  speak.  Then,  in  turn,  she 
spoke.  I  could  not  hear  her  words,  but  I  could 
hear  her  voice,  and  incontinently  felt  the  charm 
of  it.  It  was  music.  Such  a  voice  expresses  its 
meaning  far  better  than  words.  The  impression 
it  made  upon  me  was  such  that  even  now,  after 
all  these  years,  I  seem  to  hear  it:  it  falls  upon 
my  ear  from  a  great  distance,  faintly,  in  dying 
accents,  and  it  is  but  the  sweeter.  I  was  charmed 
by  it  to  the  point  of  rapture,  and  when  in  a  few 
moments  she  left  Kermoysan  and  mingled  with 
the  indifiEerent  groups  scattered  about  the  salon 


28  TJic  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

I  summoned  up  courage  enough  to  beg  Mme, 

B to  introduce  me  to  her.     Indulgent  with 

my  enthusiasm  she  did  so  with  pleasure. 

I  obtained  without  difficulty  from  Mme.  Her- 
devin  the  commonplace  phrases  to  which  every 
good  young  man  who  makes  his  entree  into  so- 
ciety has  a  right.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  me;  I 
longed  to  see  her  nearer,  at  her  home.  Now,  I 
was  altogether  an  ordinary  personage,  awkward, 
insignificant,  lacking  in  conversational  powers 
and  any  agreeable  talent,  scarcely  able  to  dance 
properly,  in  fact  that  nothing,  absolutely  nothing, 
could  recommend  to  the  attention  of  a  stranger. 
Mme.  Herdevin  could  scarcely  have  noticed  me 
the  day  I  was  presented  to  her,  did  not  know 
me  when  I  met  her  again,  and  for  several  weeks 
regarded  me  as  an  importunate  individual  who 
annoyed  her  with  his  attentions.  All  that  time 
she  produced  upon  me  an  impression  corres- 
ponding exactly  with  that  caused  by  Kermoysan, 
whom  I  was  beginning  to  visit.  Her's  was  the 
same  reserve,  and  of  the  same  nature.  No  mat- 
ter where  she  might  be,  her  soul  was  elsewhere, 
and  that  in  spite  of  the  visible  efforts  she  made 
to  interest  herself  in  what  was  passing  around 
her.  She  lent  herself  to  conversation  with  the 
best  grace,  and  yet  one  felt  that  her  real  desire 
was  to  make  it  as  brief  as  possible,  and  when 
she  ceased  to  talk  she  appeared  more  at  ease,  as 
though  silence  were  her  real  element. 

This  attitude,  far  from    diminishing  my  sym- 


A  History — Kermoysan.  29 

pathy,  increased  it.  Little  by  little,  thanks  to 
my  tenacity,  I  succeeded  in  getting  nearer  to  her; 
I  obtained  a  few  smiles,  a  few  words  above  the 
commonplace,  a  few  kind  looks ;  it  was  as  though 
she  were  accustoming  herself  to  seeing  me  in 
her  circle  of  familiars.  I  rejoiced  at  this  progress, 
slight  as  it  was.  I  reached  the  height  of  my 
desires  the  day  when  she  invited  me  to  her  Thurs- 
day five  o'clock  tea,  adding  as  she  did  so: 

"You  will  not  find  much  amusement.  I  rarely 
receive  any  but  a  few  intimate  friends,  and  my 
house  is  not  very  gay." 

To  visit  her  in  her  home,  breathe  the  same  air, 
I  asked  nothing  more:  in  early  youth  one  is  im- 
bued with  new,  pure  yet  ardent  sentiments,  that 
it  would  be  difficult  to  define.  I  did  not  love 
Mme.  Herdevin,  but  I  was  on  the  point  of  loving 
her,  or  rather,  I  think,  of  adoring  her,  with  the 
ecstasy  of  a  pilgrim. 

Before  calling  upon  her  I  judged  it  prudent 

to  ask   Mme.    B for  a   little  information 

about  the  Herdevins  that  would  enable  me  to  avoid 
making  clumsy  mistakes.  My  old  friend  willingly 
told  me  what  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  know : 

The  husband,  M.  Leopold  Herdevin,  was  a 
stock  broker,  extremely  wealthy,  but  brutal, 
coarse,  of  bad  habits,  who  seemed  to  belong  to 
a  different  species  to  his  wife's.  In  reality,  if 
not  ostensibly,  they  had  long  lived  apart:  he  in 
a  world  of  actresses  and  horses,  she  amid  a  very 


30  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

few  and  faithful  friends,  who  sought  her  society 
and  manifested  deep  afEection  for  her. 

"You   will   not   often   meet    M.    Herdevin   in 

his  wife's  drawing-room,  "  said  Mme.  B . 

"When  by  chance  he  does  appear  there,  with 
his  heavy  yellow  face  he  produces  the  effect  of  a 
smear  of  oil. 

They  had  two  twin  girls,  six  years  of  age.  One 
of  them,  named  Martha,  was  afflicted  with 
a  spinal  malady  which  had  checked  her  de- 
velopment. Preserved  like  a  fragile  object  the 
poor  wee,  puny,  suffering  thing  lived  sus- 
pended to  the  breath  of  her  mother  whom 
she  adored  with  the  little  tendernesses  of  a 
precocious  child  in  the  shadow  of  death.  The 
girl's  affliction  was  without  doubt  a  thorn  in 
Mme.  Herdevin's  flesh,  her  constant  thought, 
the  wound  which  even  more  than  the  indif- 
erence  and  coarseness  of  her  husband  pre- 
vented her  from  profiting  by  her  beauty,  her 
charm,  and  her  remaining  years  of  youthfulness. 

Mme.  B obligingly  recounted  to  me  all 

these  details,  then,  perceiving  that  I  was  deeply 
interested,  added  with  the  kind  smile  of  an  in- 
dulgent grandmother: 

"You  are  I  fancy  in  the  way  of  falling  in  love 
with  Mme.  Herdevin.  I  must  warn  you  that  she 
has  suffered  too  much  from  the  realities  of  life 
to  be  romantic.  She  has  a  solid  heart  and  a 
cool  head,  you  may  be  sure.  She  is  nearing  her 
thirtieth  year  and  is  unhappy  in  her  home  life, 


A  History — Kermoysan.  31 

and  yet  no  word  of  gossip  about  her  has  ever 
been  uttered.  But  you  will  do  right  in  frequent- 
ing her  society  as  much  as  you  can.  When 
you  have  broken  the  ice,  if  you  do  succeed  in 
breaking  it,  you  will  know  what  the  charm  of 
a  perfect  woman  can  be." 

I  had  blushed  to  the  ears,  as  though  I  had 
been  caught  in  the  act  of  doing  something  wrong, 
and  to  hide  my  embarrassment  I  brought  up 
the  subject  of  M.  Herdevin  again. 

"Even  if  you  see  very  little  of  him,  you  will 

soon  be  edified,  never  fear,"  said  Mme.  B . 

"He  is  one  of  those  persons  one  knows  quickly, 
and  whom  one  experiences  no  desire  to  become 
better  acquainted  with.  His  wife  has  put  up 
with  a  great  deal,  and,  I  think,  has  suffered  much. 
Now  she  is  resigned :  she  does  not  even  feel  the 
pain  he  still  would  like  to  cause  her." 

"Has  she  ever  loved  him?"  I  asked  rather 
stupidly. 

Mme.  B looked  at  me  a  little  mockingly: 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "How  do  you  sup- 
pose I  should  know  such  a  thing  as  that?  But, 
in  women,  even  the  best  of  them,  there  is  be- 
sides love,  amour-propre.  Its  wounds  also 
hurt,  and  these  have  not  been  spared  your  friend, 
I  can  assure  you." 

In  a  short  while  I  was  one  of  the  regu- 
lar frequenters  of  Mme.  Herdevin's  salon — a 
large  salon,  of  wholly  external  sumptuousness, 
destined  for  others,  a  salon  to  which  the  mistress 


32  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

of  the  house  was  indifferent,  which  participated 
in  nothing  of  her  grace.  Notwithstanding  the 
enormous  logs  that  blazed  in  the  fire-place  the 
room  was  always  rather  chilly.  Moreover  one 
rarely  found  more  than  five  or  six  persons  as- 
sembled there,  and  they  spoke  in  subdued  tones, 
as  though  they  were  in  a  church.  Conversa- 
tion was  carried  on  slowly  and  lacked  interest. 
Many  would  have  been  bored  to  death,  and  truth 
to  tell,  I  certainly  should  have  been  bored  my- 
self had  not  the  presence  of  Mme.  Herdevin,  how- 
ever cold  and  absent  minded  she  might  be,  com- 
pensated for  the  most  insipid  remarks. 

I  had  expected  often  to  meet  M.  Kermoysan 
there,  since  he  sought  her  company  in  society, 
I  soon  remarked  however  that  he  rarely  came, 
that  his  visit  was  always  brief,  and  that  his  pres- 
ence did  not  add  either  to  the  entrain  or  socia- 
bility of  the  company.  Once  we  were  invited 
together  to  dinner.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a 
casual  guest  rather  than  of  a  friend.  He  spoke 
but  little,  and  was  more  reserved,  more  distracted, 
more  insaisissable  than  ever.  Moreover  the  re- 
past was  a  gloomy  one.  Notwithstanding  the 
excellence  of  the  dishes  and  of  the  wines,  the 
conversation  lagged  painfully  and  was  kept  at 
a  very  low  level  by  the  puns  of  the  master  of 
the  house.  Sometimes  his  observations,  which 
he  emphasised  with  a  loud  guffaw,  were  so  trivial 
as  to  cause  his  wife  obvious  discomfort,  like 
a  sting  the  smart  of  which  was  betrayed  by  a 


A  History — Kernioysan.  33 

slight  knitting  of  her  brow.  I  understood  then 
why  she  did  not  receive  more  often  than  she  was 
obHged  to.  But  why  ask  Kermoysan  and  me 
to  meet  people  whom  we  had  no  pleasure  in 
knowing,  who  could  have  no  interest  in  us,  and 
whom  in  all  probability  we  should  never  see 
again  ? 

Weeks  passed  in  this  way,  and  I  did  not  know 
Mme.  Herdevin  better  than  on  the  night  when 
I  first  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  she  vouch- 
safed me  a  couple  of  insignificant  phrases.  The 
ice  was  long  in  breaking.  Yet  little  by  little, 
by  dint  of  talks  which  became  more  familiar, 
and  especially  after  having  on  several  occasions 
found  myself  en  tete-a-tcte  with  her,  I  was  able, 
or  thought  I  was  able,  with  some  chance  of  divin- 
ing rightly,  to  catch  a  trait  of  her  character : 

She  was  kind,  with  the  natural  kindness  of  a 
sister  of  charity,  but  with  that  passive  kindness 
which  manifests  itself  by  sentiments  more  than 
by  acts.  I  became  satisfied  also  that  she  was 
intelligent,  or  rather,  comprehensive.  Not,  how- 
ever, after  the  manner  of  women  of  culture  who 
reason  about  everything  as  specialists;  no,  but 
she  possessed  that  intelligence  of  the  heart  which 
understands  everything,  which  is  exercised  in 
preference  upon  the  small  things  of  life,  which 
shines  in  all  that  one  says  about  others  and  in 
the  discreet  semi-confidences  one  makes  about 
one's  self.  She  was  sad  also  and  especially, 
with  a  touching  sadness  which  she  endeavored 


4  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silc?ice. 


with  infinite  art  to  conceal,  yet  which  revealed 
itself,  enveloping  her  in  a  sort  of  mystery  that 
added  to  her  charm. 

This  mystery  attracted  me  to  her  more  and 
more,  and  at  last  I  came  to  enclose  her  within 
the  wide  limits  of  a  double  and  absolutely  con- 
tradictory hypothesis:  "Either  she  has  never 
loved  and  suffers  from  the  need  of  loving,  or 
else  she  loves  too  much." 

As  can  be  seen  my  youthful  perspicacity  was 
giving  itself  space. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  must  now  relate  a  series  of  facts  unconnected 
by  any  apparent  link,  some  of  which  did  not 
strike  me  at  the  time  of  their  occurrence  and 
which  only  conveyed  a  meaning  to  me  later. 

Mme.  B sometimes  favored  me  by  de- 
taining me  after  her  other  visitors  had  taken 
their  departure.  On  these  occasions  I  greatly 
enjoyed  the  friendly  and  familiar  chat  which 
succeeded  the  somewhat  high-toned  conversation 
that   had    been   indulged   in.     We   talked   more 

especially  about  others.     Mme.   B always 

experienced  great  pleasure  in  exercising,  though 
without  the  slightest  malice,  her  faculties  of  analy- 
sis upon  persons  of  her  acquaintance.  The 
astonishment  which  her  deductions  sometimes 
caused  me  amused  her  hugely.  One  afternoon 
when  I  found  myself  alone  with  her  the  conver- 
sation turned  upon  Kermoysan,  who  had  made 
a  long  call  upon  her  at  the  same  time  as  Mme. 
Herdevin. 

"Have  you  read  any  of  his  verses?"  asked  Mme. 
B suddenly. 

"Verses!"  I  exclaimed.  "He  has  never  pub- 
lished any  that  I  know  of." 

"That  is  true;  but  he  has  written  some.     They 

[35] 


J 


6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 


are  very  scarce,  and  are  only  known  to  his  closest 
friends.     Would  you  like  to  see  them?" 

Without  waiting  for  my  reply  she  went  to  a 
little  Louis  Quinze  writing  desk,  took  a  small  vol- 
ume bound  in  vellum  from  a  drawer  and  handed 
it  to  me.  It  was  a  collection  of  about  fifty  pages 
on  fine  paper,  without  title  or  the  name  of  the 
author.     Only  six  copies  had  been  printed. 

"Read,"  she  said. 

I  read  aloud  one  after  the  other  the  poems 
which  made  up  the  collection,  and  which  gener- 
ally were  short. 

The  poets  of  the  young  school  would  have 
accounted  the  verses  bad.  They  were  of  a  truth 
a  trifle  "out  of  date,"  and  rendered  heavy  by 
monotonous  caesura,  a  few  awkward  expletives, 
and  very  ordinary  rhyme,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  the  verses  of  even  clever  writers  who  are  not 
expert  in  the  use  of  the  language  of  poetry.  Not- 
withstanding these  shortcomings,  however,  they 
interested  me  deeply;  for  they  expressed,  occa- 
sionally with  really  touching  intensity,  the  half- 
veiled  nuances  of  a  sentiment  at  once  tender  and 
sad,  culpable  and  tormented.  In  these  few  pages 
were  cries  of  pain,  cries  of  anguish,  cries  of  joy, 
cries  of  remorse.  One  could  divine  therein  a 
soul  troubled  to  its  profoimdest  depths,  tossed 
hither  and  thither  by  the  blasts  of  an  irresistible 
hurricane,  like  the  poor  souls  drawn  into  the 
eternal  maelstrom,  to  which  in  fact  the  poet  him- 
self alluded  in  one  of  his  most  ardent  pieces,  and 


A  Hist  or) — Kcrfiwysan.  2>7 

gradually  one  experienced  that  sort  of  vertigo 
which  the  spectacle  of  grandes  passions  some- 
times occasions.  A  few  of  the  verses,  which  I 
only  read  once,  impressed  themselves  upon  my 
memory.  On  returning  home  I  dotted  them 
down  in  a  diary  in  ^\hi^h  I  was  accustomed  daily 
to  record  my  observations,  and  from  which  I  now 
cull  them : 

Time  builds  the  infinite  from  the  vanished  years, 

As  waves  are  garnered  on  the  ocean's  floor. 
Men  yet  unborn  shall  feel  love's  joys  and  fears, 
But  our  soul's  flower,  though  watered  with  our  tears, 
Shall  bear  love's  radiant  fruit  for  us  no  more. 

*  *  *  *  »      ■ 

Still  though  my  heart  shall  wither  in  the  blast — 
You,  who  illumed  the  darkness  where  I  strayed 
And  left  bright  paths  of  gold  athwart  the  shade — 

I  bless  you — you  who  loved  me  in  that  past. 

»  *  *  «  * 

0  women  !   'tis  through  Kindness  that  you  fall, 
Cold  Virtue  passes,  blind  to  our  distress, 
Chaste,  without  pity,  without  tenderness. 

*  =k  *  «  « 

The  fatal  wind  that  buffets,  stifles  me, 

Has  borne  thee  deathward,  thou  so  pure,  so  sweet ! 

+  *  *  *  * 

What  fearest  thou  ?     Let  the  world  unmask  our  love 
And  spurn  us  !     We  can  flee  ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

E'en  though  earth's  span  should  part  me  from  thee,  love, 

1  should  my  haven  reach  and  die  within  thine  arms. 


8  'T'he  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 


These  verses,  the  only  ones  I  preserved,  were 
perhaps  not  the  best  nor  the  most  chracteristic  of 
the  little  collection,  a  few  pages  of  which  caused 

my  voice   to  tremble.     Mme.    B listened 

with  half-closed  eyes,  as  though  this  elevated 
and  romantic  poetry,  in  which  here  and  there  the 
influence  of  Lamartine  was  perceptible,  caused 
her  the  greatest  pleasure,  notwithstanding  that 
she  had  read  it  many  a  time  and  oft. 

"Well?"  she  queried,  when  I  closed  the  book 
and  handed  it  back  to  her,  "what  do  you  think 
of  these  verses?" 

I  reflected  a  moment. 

"They  moved  me  greatly,"  I  answered. 

"Are  they  not  fine — even  though  they  do  not 
resemble  those  of  your  literary  friends  ?" 

"Fine,  I  do  not  know  about  that;  but  they  are 
true " 

Mme.   B glanced  at  me  interrogatively 

and  I  explained : 

"Yes,  true — too  true,  even.  Do  you  know 
madame,  I  cannot  undertand  how  M.  Kermoysan 
could  have  published  them  ?  It  is  not  in  his  na- 
ture to  do  such  a  thing.  He  is  a  closed  book,  he 
never  reveals  anything  of  himself,  and  these  verses 
are  a  veritable  confession,  most  sincere  and  spon- 
taneous in  their  accent." 

Mme.  B shook  her  head. 

"Perhaps,"  said  she,  "you  are  drawing  upon 
your  imagination.  When  M.  Kermoysan  pre- 
sented the  volume  to  me  he  told  me  that  he  had 


A  History — Kermoysan.  39 

written  the  verses  for  a  novel,  and  that  not  being 
able  to  finish  this  novel  he  had  been  unwilling 
to  lose  them  and  therefore  had  them  printed. 
Does  this  appear  to  you  unlikely  ?' ' 

"A  little  so.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  .  .  .  . 
what  shall  I  say  ?  .  .  .  .  that  he  wrote  them  be- 
cause he  was  impelled  to,  that  they  sprang  from 
his  very  self  at  those  times  when  one  feels  the 
need  of  crying  aloud  one's  secrets  because  they 
choke  one  and  will  not  be  suppressed." 

"But  in  that  case  he  need  only  have  written 
them.     Why  should  he  have  published  them  ?" 

"He  is  all  the  same  a  man  of  letters  ..." 
Or  else — who  knows  ? — he  may  have  published 
them  in  order  to  offer  them  to  the  person  who 
inspired  them." 

Mme.  B smiled. 

"How  subtle  you  are!"  she  said  with  a  tinge  of 
irony. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  .she  added : 

"After  all  it  is  not  impossible.  Kermoysan 
is  very  mysterious  ....  maybe  he  has  a  very 
complicated  liaison." 

My  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  the  opportunity 
to  learn  something  more  about  this  man  who  in- 
terested me  so  much  being  a  favorable  one  I  asked-: 

"Have  people  gossiped  about  him?  Is  it  known 
whether  he  has  a  past?" 

"A  past !"  exclaimed  Mme.  B .     "Several 

pasts!  Very  many  pasts !  In  France,  in  Paris, 
without   counting  others  which  he  left  in  those 


40  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

queer  countries  he  pretends  to  love.  M.  Ker- 
moysan  has  gone  the  pace.  There  is  a  little  of 
everything  in  his  life:  not  only  women,  but 
cards,  even  wine,  opium,  and  I  know  not  what. 
A  real  sailor,  in  a  w^ord.  As  soon  as  he  was  on 
terra  firma  he  lost  control  over  himself." 

"I  was  not  aware  of  all  this." 

"Well,  you  see,  there  are  a  good  many  things 
you  are  not  aware  of.  Besides,  if  he  used  to  be 
talked  about  a  good  deal,  it  is  not  the  case  now. 
He  settled  down  five  or  six  years  ago,  and  now, 
they  say,  he  is  as  good  as  a  plaster  saint." 

"That  is  very  strange!" 

"Do  you  think  so  ?  Well^no,  there  is  nothing 
strange  in  it.  Age  is  a  factor  to  be  considered. 
Whatever  we  may  do  to  resist  it,  w^e  grow  older 
all  the  same,  and  there  comes  a  time  when  we 
must  call  a  halt,  become  sedate,  and  make  ar- 
rangements to  pass  the  remainder  of  our  days 
in  peace  and  comfort,  'make  an  end  of  it,'  as  you 
men  say." 

"Undoubtedly.  But  what  arrangements  has 
he  made?" 

This  simple  question  embarrassed  Mme.  B . 

"Well,"  she  said,  "as.  I  observed,  he  has  settled 
down.  What  more  can  I  say?  Is  not  that  mak- 
ing a  sufficiently  final  end  of  it?" 

I  did  not  answer,  and  Mme.  B continued : 

"In  fact  he  has  settled  down  too  much  for  a 
man  of  his  age.  And  he  was  misguided  enough 
at   one  time  to  get  his  virtue  talked  about  too 


A  History — -Kermoysan.  41 

much.  Three  years  ago  when  his  Laiitrec  was 
produced,  the  actress  who  played  the  principal 
role  fell  in  love  with  him.  It  was  one  of  those 
transient  passions  to  which  women  of  the  stage 
are  subject.  I  cannot  remember  the  details,  but 
there  was  a  perfect  comedy  about  this  drama — 
a  comedy  in  which  he  took  the  part  of  a  Joseph. 
It  caused  a  good  deal  of  amusement  in  society 
circles  at  the  time.     To-day  it  is  forgotten." 

"  That,"  said  I,  "is  a  very  significant  incident 
indeed.  How  can  it  be  believed  that  it  was 
through  virtue  that  a  man  such  as  he,  an  ex- 
viveur,  played  the  always  rather  ridiculous  role 
of  him  who  will  not  allow  himself  to  be  loved  ? 
He  has  not  been  converted,  that  I  know  of  ?" 

"  No,  he  believes  in  nothing:  he  is  a  perfect 
infidel. " 

"  Consequently  if  it  was  not  piety  that  ren- 
dered him  so  good  it  must  have  been  something 
else." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  just  simply  tired,"  suggested 
Mme.  B . 

She  was  joking.  At  that  very  moment  Mme. 
Herdevin's  face  appeared  clearly  in  my  mind: 
it  was  an  intviition  that  could  be  explained  by 
nothing  save  the  fact  that  I  was  accustomed  to 
associate  her  in  my  thoughts  with  Kermoysan. 

"  It  may  be,too,"  I  said,  "  that  a  great  love " 

Mme.  B appeared  to  weigh  this  suppo- 
sition, then  she  rejected  it. 


4^  The  Sacrijjce  of  Silence. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  she  declared,  "you  are 
incapable  of  a  great  love,  you  men  of  to-day." 

"  Exceptionally "  I  insinuated. 

But  she  concluded: 

"  Besides  it  would  be  known.  Such  a  thing 
could  not  remain  a  secret.  No,  no,  you  have 
not  guessed  aright.  No,  monsieur  the  psycholo- 
gist, you  will  have  to  seek  for  something  else." 

"  I  will  seek  for  it,"  I  replied. 

But  I  was  sure  that  I  had  found  it. 


CHAPTER  in. 

A  few  days  after  the  foregoing  conversation 
I  met  Kermoysan  at  Mme.  Herdevin's.  They 
were  alone,  she  seated  in  the  corner  of  a  small 
lounge  near  the  fire,  he  ensconced  in  an  arm- 
chair at  some  distance  from  the  lounge.  They 
received  me  with  friendliness,  still  I  had  the  im- 
pression that  my  visit  was  inopportune,  and  pro- 
posed to  make  it  as  short  as  possible.  I  had 
hardly  seated  myself,  however,  when  a  servant 
entered  with  a  scared  air  and  said  something  in 
a  low  voice  to  Mme.  Herdevin.  She  rose  at  once, 
and  begging  us  to  excuse  her  for  a  moment  left 
the  drawing  room  by  a  door  which  opened  into 
her  husband's  study.  I  continued  to  converse 
with  Kermoysan.  He  was  absent-minded,  and 
two  or  three  times,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  eyes 
wandered  towards  the  door.  The  conversation 
dropped  after  a  few  remarks.  We  found  noth- 
ing to  talk  about,  and  sat  facing  each  other  with 
some  embarrassment,  both  a  prey  to  the  same 
curiosity  which  we  could  not  and  would  not 
avow.  Soon  that  curiosity  increased  to  the  point 
of  imeasiness.  The  voice  of  M.  Herdevin,  which 
we  had  not  at  first  heard,  rose  louder  and  louder 
in  the  adjoining  room.  I  could  not  prevent  my- 
self from  muttering: 

[43] 


44  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

Kermoysan  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  A  family  quarrel,"  he  said. 

And  he  added  with  a  great  effort  to  appear 
ironical  and  indifferent : 

"  The  man  is  so  vulgar!  We  really  ought  to 
be  grateful  to  him  for  not  scolding  his  wife  in 
our  presence." 

At  this  moment  the  brutal  voice,  raised  to  a 
high  pitch,  reached  us  distinctly  through  the 
partition  and  hangings.  We  heard  two  or  three 
oaths  which  ended  in  a  violent:  "Tonnerre  de 
Dieu!"  We  rose  together  with  the  same  move- 
ment of  indignation. 

"  The  wretch!"  I  cried. 

Kermoysan,  as  though  impelled  by  a  spring, 
made  two  or  three  steps  in  the  direction  of  the 
door.  He  stopped,  returned  to  his  armchair, 
sank  into  it  and  muttered  as  he  bit  his  lips: 

"  He  is  capable  of  beating  her!'    ' 

In  the  next  room  the  voice  had  become  covered 
and  we  could  hear  only  the  irritated  murmuring. 
I  had  remained  standing. 

"This  is  odious!"    I  exclaimed. 

My  companion  was  very  pale,  but  he  had  re- 
covered his  calmness. 

"  He  is  the  husband,"  he  said,  gritting  his  teeth. 
"  It  is  none  of  our  business,"  and  he  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  tip  of  his  shoe  which  he  was  mov- 
ing restlessly  on  the  carpet. 

We    remained    quiet,  hearing    nothing    more. 


A  Hi.story — Kcrmoysan.  45 

suddenly  the  violent  slamming  of  a  door  ap- 
prised us  that  the  storm  was  over.  I  heaved,  I  ad- 
mit, a  sigh  of  relief.  As  to  Kermoysan  he  passed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes  with  the  gesture  of  a  man 
who  dispels  a  nightmare. 

Mme.  Herdevin,  however,  soon  returned,  but 
hesitatingly,  and  with  a  pained  air.  She  ex- 
cused herself  for  having  kept  us  waiting  so  long. 

"  My  husband  had  something  urgent  to  com- 
mimicate  to  me,"  she  said  gently. 

Her  limpid  eyes  seemed  to  ask  us  whether  we 
had  heard  what  had  passed — and  implored  us 
not  to  take  any  notice  of  it. 

I  was  extremely  embarrassed,  fearing  that  it 
would  be  indiscreet  of  me  to  prolong  my  visit, 
and  that  it  might  worry  her  if  I  left  too  soon.  I 
therefore  gave  her  time  to  say  a  few  words  which 
she  no  doubt  imagined  would  make  believe  that 
her  mind  was  free  from  care;  then  profiting  by 
an  opportune  moment  of  silence  I  rose  to  take 
leave.  Feeling  instinctively  that  they  would 
want  to  talk  to  each  other  I  thought  that  Ker- 
moysan would  remain.  But  no,  he  rose  with 
me,  As  Mme.  Herdevin  extended  her  hand, 
however,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  held  it  one  or 
two  seconds  longer  and  pressed  it  a  little  stronger 
than  mere  politeness  required. 

We  left  the  house  together.  In  the  street  — 
the  Herdevins  lived  at  the  lower  end  of  the  Ave- 
nue du  Trocadero — as  we   were  going  towards 


46  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

the  Alma  bridi^e,   I  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  exclaim : 

"  What  injustice  that  such  a  lout " 

I  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Kermoysan  un- 
derstood it.  Instead  of  taking  it  up  at  once,  he 
walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  steps,  gazing 
straight  before  him.  Then  he  said,  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  tone  that  was  almost  confidential : 
"  I  believe  she  adores  her  children!" 
Then  as  we  had  arrived  at  the  Place  de  I'Alma, 
he  asked : 

"  Do  you  take  the  Avenue  Montaigne  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  the  Madeleine." 
"And  I  over  the  bridge.      I  have  business  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water." 

We  shook  hands  and  he  strode  rapidly  away. 
A  few  days  later  I  saw  Mme.  Herdevin  at  a 
ball  to  which,  contrary  to  custom,  her  husband 
had  accompanied  her.  She  appeared  to  me  in 
a  new  aspect.  She  was  animated,  talkative,  mon- 
daine,  almost  coquettish,  but  there  was  something 
forced  about  it,  something  unnatural,  that  seemed 
to  protest  to  her.  Certain  persons  who  go  into 
society  with  the  secret  idea  of  looking  for  ro- 
mances noted  that  she  talked  and  danced  a  good 
deal  with  a  well-known  clubman,  whose  success 
with  her  astonished  me.  The  Baron  de  Mal- 
main  was  a  conceited  beau  who  affected  a  military 
air,  who  was  of  a  maturity  that  began  to  wrinkle 
his  forehead  and  thin  the  hair  about  his  temples, 
and    who   did   not    even   possess   that    negative 


A  History — Kemnoysan.  47 

quality  of  being  inoffensive  that  is  not  infre- 
quently found  in  men  of  His  stamp.  In  effect, 
although  he  lacked  wit,  he  possessed  a  store  of 
unkind  anecdotes  and  stinging  judgments  about 
other  people  to  which  he  had  recourse  whenever 
the  occasion  for  showing  off  presented  itself. 
So  that  he  was  listened  to  and  created  laughter, 
— that  kind  of  laughter  in  which  there  is  always 
a  little  hatred,  a  little  disdain,  a  little  pride,  which 
is  more  spiteful  than  frivolous,  which  one  ought 
not  to  indulge  in,  and  which  is  in  demand. 

I  confess  that  I  did  not  like  to  see  Mme.  Her- 
devin  waltzing  with  this  individual,  listening 
smilingly  to  his  remarks,  and  replying  to  him 
in  her  pure,  clear  voice,  that  voice  in  which 
seemed  to  sound  the  crystal  of  her  soul.  I  was 
not  jealous,  in  the  brutal  and  possessive  sense  of 
the  word,  but  I  suffered  from  a  sentiment  that 
was  very  much  akin  to  jealousy.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  her  contact  with  Mai  main  was  contam- 
inating her,  that  she  would  no  longer  be  the  same 
after  tolerating  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  lis- 
tening to  his  slander.  I  was  relieved  when  he 
quitted  her  and  hied  elsewhere  with  his  lady- 
killing  gallantry;  but  he  always  returned  and  my 
uneasiness  recommenced. 

Once  I  saw  Mme.  Herdevin  standing  by  Ker- 
mo)'san:  their  attitude,  looks  and  expression  re- 
produced almost  exactly  the  group  which  had  im- 
pressed me  at  Mme.  B 's  when  I  saw  them 

together  for  the  first  time.  During  the  few  minutes 


48  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

their  conversation  lasted  I  saw  her  again  just  as 
I  liked  her  and  I  was  happy,  so  naive,  so  pure 
was  my  sentiment  for  her,  born  wholly  as  it  was 
of  respect  and  disinterested  admiration.  But 
this  did  not  last  long:  the  inevitable  Malmain 
came  to  fetch  her  for  a  cjuadrille.  She  went  at 
once,  saluting  with  a  smile  as  she  did  so  Ker- 
moysan,  who  bowed  more  ceremoniously  than 
was  necessary  and  resumed  his  society  expression. 

Kermoysan  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  then 
seeing  me  he  took  my  arm,  saying: 

"  Suppose  we  stroll  about  a  bit?  There  is  not 
enough  air  here." 

He  led  me  into  a  small  salon  where  some  card 
parties  were  playing,  lost  a  few  louis  nervously, 
and  returned  to  the  ball-room.  I  kept  beside 
him.  His  gaze  wandered  imeasily  over  the  couples 
coming  and  going  until  it  fell  upon  Mme.  Her- 
devin.  She  was  seated,  and  listening  to  Malmain 
who,  standing,  was  half  bending  over  her. 

"  Decidedly,  it  is  too  warm  here,"  said  Ker- 
moysan.     "I'm  off.     Au  revoir!" 

Hardly  had  he  gone  when  M.  Herdevin  came 
up  to  me.  His  coarse,  fat  face,  red  with  the 
heat,  expressed  profound  ennui.  Knowing  hardly 
anybody  in  a  set  that  he  did  not  frequent,  he 
had  wandered  like  a  lost  soul  all  the  evening, 
between  the  ball-room  and  the  card  room,  where 
play  was  too  moderate  for  his  taste. 

"Not  very  amusing,  your  set,"  he  said  with 
^  yawn.   "Nainjaune  at  two  sous  a  time,  at  family 


A  History — Kermoysan.  49 

tables.  It  woiild  give  anybody  the  hump.  And 
the  heat's  simply  stifling.  I've  had  enough  of 
it.  I'm  off  to  my  club,  I  like  that  better.  Good 
night." 

His  wife  who  without  appearing  to  do  so  had 
watched  his  every  movement  saw  him  go,  and  left 
immediately  afterward. 

And  I  had  the  very  distinct  impression  that 
between  these  three  something  had  passed — 
an  abortive  drama,  a  scene  of  jealousy,  ruse,  or 
lying,  something  at  all  events,  the  details  of 
which  I  should  not  have  cared  to  go  into,  even 
had  I  been  able. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"In  the  drawing  room  of  a  friend  of   Mme. 

B 's,  at  the  close  of  an  afternoon,  three  or 

four  women,  among  them  Mme.  Herdevin.  Tea 
is  over.  Conversation  languishes  and  is  about 
to  drop  when  Mai  main  makes  his  appearance. 
He  is  smartly  dressed,  sparkling,  triumphant; 
even  from  his  air  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  brings 
a  bit  of  new  gossip,  some  spiteful  chit-chat  cal- 
culated to  cause  amusement  for  five  minutes. 
He  has  hardly  taken  a  seat  ere  he  says: 

*' '  Have  you  read  the  article  in  the  Spectateiir 
about  Kermoysan  ?' 

"  The  ladies  look  at  each  other  and  answer 
that  they  have  not. 

"  '  An  article  that  hits  the  nail  on  the  head, 
you  can  take  my  word  for  it,  and  that  you  may 
be  sure  will  be  talked  about.' 

"  Thereupon  he  takes  a  copy  of  the  Spectateiir 
from  his  pocket,  a  much  creased  copy  that  must 
have  been  used  several  times,  and  in  his  sharp 
voice  which  his  wicked  joy  renders  sharper  than 
usual,  he  reads  the  most  biting  passages.  Gall, 
venom,  calumny  and  abuse — one  of  those  mix- 
tures, humiliating  to  the  human  species,  which 
base  envy  alone  could  have   prompted;  at  the 

[50] 


A  History — Kermoysan.  51 

end  of  it  the  little  known  name  of  Maxime  Lu- 
cand. 

"  '  Who  is  Maxime  Lucand  ?'  somebody  asks. 

"  '  A  young  writer,'  explains  Malmain,  '  who 
has  great  talent  as  a  pamphleteer.  You  see, 
ladies,  how  your  idol  is  handled.' 

"  He  has  been  listened  to  with  murmurs,  with 
frou  frotis^  with  little  smothered  laughs.  A  voice 
in  a  tone  of  protest  exclaims: 

"'Oh:  our  idol!' 

"  And  Malmain  says  exultingly: 

"  '  What !  Going  to  give  him  up  already  ? 
He !  he !  It's  just  as  well  that  the  great  favorites 
of  the  ladies  should  get  a  little  lesson  now  and 
then.  The  birch  is  good  for  illustrious  backs. 
And  our  dear  friend  positively  needed  it.' 

"  I  wait  for  a  voice  to  be  raised  in  defence  of 
the  absent  one;  but  the  ladies  listen  and  smile, 
not  one  thinks  of  intervening.  Involuntarily  my 
eyes  seek  Mme.  Herdevin.  She  is  gazing  straight 
before  her  as  though  she  did  not  hear,  with 
tightly  pressed  lips  and  an  icy  air;  she  drums 
upon  her  knees  with  her  fingers  while  Malmain 
continues  with  an  exasperating  affectation  of 
bonhomie : 

" '  There  is  exaggeration  in  the  article,  no 
doubt,  a  little  exaggeration;  but  on  the  whole, 
he!  he!  yes,  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  well 
founded,  )7'ou  see.  To  say  that  Kermoysan  has 
no  talent  is  absurd,  isn't  it  ?  He  has  talent  and 
everybody  recognizes  the  fact;  still,  he  himself 


52  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

is  more  convinced  of  it  than  anybody  else,  and 
above  all  he  imagines  he  has  more  than  he  pos- 
sesses. Don't  you  think  he  always  has  the  air 
of  posing  for  his  statue  ?  He  looks  as  if  he  could 
already  see  himself  cast  in  bronze  with  a  wreath 
upon  his  brow.' 

"  They  laugh:  and  one  of  them  showing  her 
pretty  teeth,  replies: 

" '  That  is  true,  there  is  something  of  such  an 
air  about  him.' 

"  Thus  encouraged  Malmain  resumes  in  more 
animated  tone: 

"  '  Only  the  other  day,  at  the  first  performance 
of  L  'Eirang}re,  I  met  him  in  the  foyer  of  the 
Comedie.  He  was  strutting  about  with  the  air, 
— with  the  air  of  a  king  in  his  palace.  One 
would  have  thought  that  he  had  written  the 
piece.  Somebody  stopped  him,  to  ask  for  an  ad- 
dress, I  think.  He  went  to  write  it  on  one  of 
his  cards,  but  couldn't  find  his  pencil.  His  in- 
terlocutor didn't  have  one  either.  I  noticed 
their  embarrassment  and  offered  him  mine. 

"  He  used  it,  and  returned  it  with  a  '  thank 
you' — oh!  one  of  those  Louis  XIV.  or  Olym- 
pian Jupi'.er  thank  yous.  Then  a  queer  idea 
came  into  my  head.  I  said  to  him:  '  This  is 
now  an  historical  pencil!'  And  he  didn't  see 
that  I  was  mocking  him  !' 

"  I  can  stand  it  no  longer,  and  venture  timidly: 

"  '  Are  you  quite  sure  ?' 

^' '  Parbleu !'    replies     Malmain,    who    hardly 


A  Histoi'y — Kermoysan,  53 

notices  my  interruption ;  and  he  falls  to  picking 
Kermoysan  to  pieces  again  more  bitterly,  with 
more  incisive  and  calumnious  spitefulness : 

"  '  What  will  he  do  about  this  article  ?  Fight  ? 
I  doubt  it.  I  don't  think  he's  a  hero.  People 
say  things  about  him ' 

"  This  is  too  much.  Trembling  with  anger  I 
ask: 

"  '  What  things  ?' 

"  My  question  is  put  in  a  tone  of  such  firm- 
ness that  Malmain  cannot  avoid  answering  it. 
Astonished  at  this  unexpected  intervention  he 
looks  at  me,  becomes  embarrassed,  and  stam- 
mers: 

"  '  Things— well,  things ' 

" '  Say  what  they  are !' 

" '  Oh,  one  can't  tell  everything,  you  know.' 

" '  That  is  a  pity,  I  am  sure,  for  it  would  be 
seen  that  there  is  nothing  about  Kermoysan  that 
needs  to  be  kept  secret.' 

"  Then  I  speak  out  warmly,  wax  eloquent. 
The  ladies  listen,  somewhat  astonished  at  this 
explosion,  a  trifle  ashamed,  perhaps,  at  having 
listened  to  Malmain,  and  quite  ready  to  rally  to 
Kermoysan  again.  When  I  finish  my  brave 
tirade  Malmain  looks  at  me  haughtily,  and  says 
with  a  superior  smile : 

" '  I  was  not  aware  that  Kermoysan  had  any 
friends.     This  is  greatly  to  his  credit !' 

"  But  I  have  attained  my  object :  he  changes 
the  subject.     A  moment  later   Mme.  Herdevin 


54  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

rises  to  take  her  departure.  She  holds  out  her 
hand  to  me,  a  thing  she  has  never  done  before, 
and,  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  mistaken,  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  pressure  of  her  fingers 
and  the  look  in  her  eyes  thank  me. 

"  I  no  longer  listen  to  the  conversation,  and  I 
leave  in  turn  animated  by  a  juvenile  hate  against 
Malmain  and  very  proud  of  the  little  role  I  have 
played." 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  in  my  famous  note  book  that  I  found 
the  details  of  the  foregoing  little  scene,  insignifi- 
cant enough  in  itself.  However,  in  spite  of  the 
time  that  has  since  elapsed  they  probably  would 
have  remained  in  my  memory,  because  they 
were  connected  with  the  graver  incident  which 
followed,  and  in  which  I  was  directly  concerned. 

Having  dined  at  a  restaurant,  I  had  returned 
for  the  purpose  of  donning  evening  dress,  to  the 
very  modest  two-roomed  apartment  I  occupied 
on  the  sixth  floor  of  a  big  house  in  the  Rue 
Lafayette.  I  was  engaged  in  curling  my  mous- 
tache— an  operation  about  which  I  was  the 
more  particular  because  it  would  not  have  been 
indispensable — when  I  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door.  I  opened  it  without  stopping  to  put  on 
my  coat,  and  drew  back  in  astonishment  at  sight 
of  Kermoysan  who  never  before  had  called  upon 
me.  He  was  accompanied  by  an  elderly  man  of 
haughty  appearance,  tightly  buttoned  up  in  a 
frock  coat  and  wearing  a  goatee. 

"  My  friend.  Captain  Lozier,"  he  said,  intro- 
ducing him. 

Greatly  agitated  by  this  imexpected  visit  the 
motive  of  which  I  vaguely  guessed,  I  bade  them 
be  seated  and  hurriedly  put  on  my  dress  coat. 

[55] 


D 


6  The  Sacrijice  of  Silenc6. 


"  I  must  ask  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you 
at  this  hour,"  said  Kermoysan,  "  but  I  have  an 
urgent  service  ^o  ask  of  you." 

"  I  signified  by  a  gesture  that  I  was  at  his 
disposal." 

He  continued: 

"  What  has  brought  me  here  is  that  I  am 
going  to  fight  Lucand." 

I  deemed  I  ought  to  object  that  there  was  no 
real  necessity  for  such  a  duel ;  that  a  man  in  his 
position  was  not  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  comer 
who  might  want  to  insult  him,  and  besides,  that 
he  was  so  superior  to  his  aggressor  that  he  would 
be  honoring  the  man  too  much  in  crossing 
swords  with  him. 

"  I  must  fight,"  he  interrupted  in  a  tone  that 
admitted  of  no  further  argument. 

Then,  more  gently,  as  though  he  felt  that  he 
nevertheless  owed  me  some  explanation : 

"  I  am,  I  need  hardly  say,  quite  indifferent  to 
this  article ;  but  were  I  to  put  up  with  it  others 
would  follow  which  might  be  more  disagreeable 
to  me.  They  can  roast  my  books  as  much  as 
they  like,  I  don't  care  anything  about  that ;  but 
I  won't  permit  them  to  talk  about  myself." 

The  captain,  sitting  rigidly  in  his  arm-chair 
nodded  approval ;  I  bowed. 

"  Here  is  where  the  difficiilty  about  the  affair 
commences,"  continued  Kermoysan  with  some 
hesitation.  "  I  have  reasons,  particular  rea- 
sons"— and   he   emphasized    the   word    partic- 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  57 

ular — "  for  desiring  that  nothing  shall  be  known 
about  this  duel  until  it  has  taken  place — reasons 
so  strong  that  if  I  thought  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  prevent  the  report  of  it  getting  about 
before  hand,  I  would  rather  give  it  up." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  Lucand,  on  the  other  hand, 
will  naturally  want  to  get  all  the  notoriety  out  of 
it  he  possibly  can." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  danger,"  went  on  Ker- 
moysan  uneasily.  "  After  it  is  all  over  he  can 
beat  upon  his  big  drum  as  much  as  ever  he  likes. 
What  I  w^ant  to  do  is  to  prevent  at  all  costs  any 
information  about  the  preliminaries  leaking  out 
— newspaper  paragraphs  announcing  that  the 
seconds  are  arranging  the  encounter,  etc." 

"  You  w'ill  have  no  difficulty,"  I  ventured,  "  in 
getting  the  press " 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoul- 
ders: 

"  I  cannot  go  the  round  of  the  papers  to  ask 
them  to  keep  quiet.  As  to  my  adversary's  sec- 
onds, they  would  make  promises,  but  would  not 
keep  them.  I  know  what  the  word  of  a  Lucand 
and  people  of  his  kind  is  worth.  There  is,  then, 
only  one  way,  and  that  is  to  go  quickly  about 
the  business." 

"  Yes,  yes,  very  quickly,"  repeated  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  The  plan  that  appears  most  practical  to  me 
is  this,"  continued  Kermoysan.  "  As  you  will 
see,  it  can  only  be  carried  out  by  a  great  deal  of 


58  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

good  win  on  the  part  of  the  seconds.  Consider- 
ing the  pedantry  natural  to  fencers  this  is  a  first 
point  of  some  difficulty.  There  is  a  premiere  at 
the  Varietes  to-night.  Lucand  certainly  will  be 
there.  My  seconds  will  hunt  him  up  at  the 
theatre,  apprise  him  that  I  am  compelled  by 
orders  from  the  Ministry  of  Marine  to  leave 
Paris  on  duty  to-morrow  and  that  consequently 
our  quarrel  must  be  settled  immediately.  At 
any  rate,  by  no  matter  what  pretext,  they  must 
get  him  to  put  them  in  communication  this  very 
evening  with  two  of  his  friends  among  the  audi- 
ence. All  this  is  possible.  If  the  plan  succeeds, 
the  next  thing  will  be  to  avoid  debate  with  Lu- 
cand's  seconds.  Their  conditions,  whatever 
they  may  be,  must  be  accepted,  so  that  the  en- 
counter can  take  place  at  daybreak  to-morrow. 
They  cannot  contest  my  position  as  the  offended 
party,  but  if  they  demand  concessions,  give  way 
to  them.  Let  them  have  swords  or  pistols, 
whichever  they  want.  The  principal  thing  is 
that  the  affair  shall  be  settled  speedily  and  with- 
out noise." 

Kermoysan  had  spoken  rapidly,  with  anxious 
feverishness,  as  though  to  convey  the  impression 
of  quickly  passing  incidents.  I  did  not  reply  at 
once.  However  inexperienced  in  such  matters 
I  might  be,  I  hesitated  to  accept  a  role  so  pas- 
sive, and  to  so  completely  remove  all  freedom  of 
action  in  an  affair  which  after  all  might  take  a 
serious  turn.     He  perceived  my  hesitation. 


A  History — Ker7iioysan.  59 

"  Except  the  captain,"  he  said,  with  a  tinge 
of  pleading  in  his  voice,  "  I  have  no  friends  in- 
timate enough  to  accept  such  a  role  without  ask- 
ing me  for  explanations,  and  I  cannot  furnish 
any.  Moreover,  I  should  be  embarrassed  to 
find  among  my  acquaintances  anybody  to  whom 
I  could  confide  this  necessity,  this  absolute  ne- 
cessity, for  acting  without  delay.  I  thought  of 
you,  because  I  know  that  you  like  me,  and  be- 
cause I  believe  you  to  be  discreet  and  generous. 
It  is  a  very  great  service  I  am  asking  of  you, 
much  greater  than  you  think." 

I  might  have  been  flattered  by  such  confi- 
dence ;  but  I  was  especially  moved  by  Kermoy- 
san's  tone,  by  the  agitation  which  he  tried  to 
control,  by  a  sort  of  pained  anguish  which  I  did 
not  for  an  instant  have  the  idea  of  attributing 
'    to  the  material  fact  of  the  duel.     I  accepted. 

He  thanked  me  with  effusion. 

*'  Do  not  be  uneasy  as  to  the  outcome  of  the 
encounter,"  he  said.  "  I  can  still  fence  fairly 
well  and  can  hit  the  bull's  eye  at  thirty  paces. 
You  will  see  that  all  will  go  well." 

Thereupon  he  rose.  The  captain,  still  mute, 
followed  suit.  We  walked  down  my  six  flights 
and  proceeded  together  towards  the  Theatre  des 
Varietes.  Kermoysan  shook  hands  with  us,  re- 
peating in  pressing  tones  as  he  did  so,  his  re- 
commendation: 

'*  Above  all,  be  quick  about  it." 


6o  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

Then  he  went  off  to  wait  for  us  at  the  Cafe 
Cardinal. 

I  was  not  without  inquietnde  as  to  the  manner 
in  which  the  silent  captain  would  conduct  the 
negotiations.  Contrary  to  my  expectation,  how- 
ever, he  went  about  them  very  well  indeed,  with 
an  apparent  bruscjueness  that  masked  consider- 
able tact  and  skill,  so  that  I  had  no  occasion  to 
say  a  single  word.  Lucand  wanted  to  protest 
against  such  haste,  which  was  not  at  all  to  his 
liking. 

"  Exigencies  of  the  service!"  said  the  captain. 

He  had  no  alternative  but  to  yield.  He  went 
the  round  of  the  corridors  during  an  entr'acte, 
and  returned  with  two  of  his  confreres  whom  he 
introduced  to  us,  and  with  whom  we  imme- 
diately began  the  negotiations.  They  endea- 
vored to  raise  a  few  difificulties.  Faithful  to  his 
instructions  the  captain  entered  into  their  views 
without  appearing  to  give  way  too  readily,  and 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  had  drawn  up  the 
proces  verbal  governing  the  conditions  of  the 
combat. 

We  then  rejoined  Kermoysan  who  was  await- 
ing us  with  a  vioithe  a  V eaji  in  front  of  him. 

"  Capital!"  he  said,  perusing  the  sheet  we 
handed  to  him. 

At  this  moment  his  face  expressed  only  relief 
and  satisfaction. 

"  I  could  not  have  hoped  that  it  would  have 
been  arranged  so  well,"  he  went  on.     "  You  have 


A  History — Kermoysan.  6 1 

acted  very  cleverly.  Now,  if  you  like,  we  will 
go  to  bed  early,  for  we  must  not  oversleep  our- 
selves." 

As  can  be  imagined,  I  was  greatly  troubled. 
I  gave  up  all  idea  of  going  to  the  social  function 
for  which  I  had  dressed,  and  went  home  to  re- 
flect in  quietness  upon  what  had  happened  to 
me.  To  take  part  in  a  duel  in  the  capacity  of 
Kermoysan's  second  was  unquestionably  an  im- 
portant event  for  me.  It  had  broken  my  chrysa- 
lis cocoon,  so  to  speak,  and  would  henceforth 
make  of  me  something  more  than  a  mere  good 
young  man.  Then,  too,  the  fact  that  Kermoy- 
san had  fixed  upon  me  was  flattering  in  the 
highest  degree.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
about  to  grow  in  the  opinion  of  the  world,  but 
that,  meanwhile,  I  was  becoming  greater  in  my 
own  esteem.  To  my  credit,  be  it  said,  this  per- 
sonal side  of  the  affair  did  not  occupy  my 
thoughts  for  long.  I  soon  forgot  my  role  to 
think  of  Kermoysan,  and  in  recalling  his  words, 
his  air,  his  inquietude,  I  came  to  ask  myself  two 
or  three  questions,  that  were  indiscreet,  perhaps, 
but  which  my  curiosity  could  not  repel. 

Why  this  duel,  that  malevolent  persons  like 
Malmain  could  alone  consider  necessary?  Why 
fight,  not  on  account  of  the  article  itself,  but  in 
view  of  others  which  perhaps  never  might  be 
written  ?  Why  this  haste,  this  feverish  haste, 
which  some  persons  would  not  have  failed  to 
attribute  to  an  emotion  akin  to  fear,  or  at  least 


62  The  Sacrijice  of  Silence. 

to  a  too  conscious,  too  voluntary  courage  which 
its  possessor  knows  can  be  sustained  only  for  a 
certain  time  ?  On  the  other  hand,  if  apprehen- 
sion, however  slight,  entered  into  Kermoysan's 
anxiety,  wherefore  an  indifference  to  the  detail 
of  conditions  that  amounted  to  positive  impru- 
dence ?  In  reflecting  upon  these  various  whys 
and  wherefores  I  had  no  doubt  that  they  were 
connected,  the  one  with  the  other,  and  I 
launched  upon  a  series  of  conjectures  that  I 
flattered  myself  were  very  cleverly  deducted. 

'•  No  doubt,"  thought  I  in  the  first  place,  "  he 
desires  absolutely  that  nothing  shall  become 
known  about  the  affair  until  it  is  all  over :  this  is 
to  avert  any  anxiety  to  a  person  who  is  interested 

in  him That  appears  to  me  quite  evident. 

....  And  it  is  a  very  natural  thoughtfulness 
which  demonstrates  that  he  has  a  tender  and 
delicate  soul,  a  trait  well  worthy  of  one  whose 
heart  is  as  noble  as  his  talent  is  distinguished." 

As  I  dwelt  upon  this  idea  which  led  me  to  a 
few  contingent  reflections,  a  suspicion  suddenly 
entered  my  mind: 

"  What  if  it  was  not  out  of  pure  tenderness 
that  he  insisted  upon  these  precautions  !  What 
if  he  were  actuated  by  a  preoccupation  of 
another  kind  ?  What  if,  for  instance,  he  feared 
lest  the  person  whom  he  so  dreaded  to  alarm 
might  not  be  able  to  hide  the  anxiety  the  duel 
would  occasion  ?  What  if  the  encounter  ap- 
peared to  him  dangerous,  not  to  his   life,  but 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  63 

to  a  secret  more  precious  than  life,  to  an  equi- 
librium the  establishment  and  maintenance  of 
which  had  been  his  chief,  his  constant  care  >" 

The  more  I  thought  about  it  the  more  plausi- 
ble this  suspicion  appeared  to  me,  especially 
when  I  came  to  connect  it  with  the  alarm  Ker- 
moysan  had  manifested  at  the  possibility  of 
further  articles  being  published. 

•'  As  he  himself  has  said,"  I  thought,  "  it  is  not 
criticism,  however-  violent,  of  his  literary  work 
that  he  dreads.  If  he  so  greatly  fears  attacks 
upon  himself  it  cannot  be  merely  through  mod- 
esty which,  however  legitimate,  would  in  this 
particular  case  be  exaggerated;  it  is  because  he 
has  a  weak  point  through  which  he  is  afraid  he 
will  be  reached." 

Putting  these  conjectures  together,  I  concliKled 
that  Andre  Kermoysan  was  actuated  by  affec- 
tion, profound,  culpable,  complicated  and  secret, 
which  was  never  absent  from  his  thoughts,  and 
in  view  of  which  he  calculated  all  his  actions, 
even  those  which  apparently  were  in  no  way 
related  thereto.  Thus  was  explained  not  only 
his  somewhat  strange  conduct  during  the  even- 
ing, but  also  his  renunciation  of  his  former  life 
of  amusement,  the  austerity  of  his  present  con- 
duct, and  his  habitual  indifference  to  all  that 
went  on  around  him.  Then  he  seemed  to  me  to 
issue  from  the  sort  of  mysterious  penumbra  in 
\\'hich  I  had  previously  always  seen  him,  and  I 


64  The  Sacrijice  of  Silence. 

fancied  that  I  began  to  decipher  the  unknown 
characters  engraved  on  his  brow. 

"  And  Mme.  B asserts  that  we  no  longer 

know  how  to  love!"  I  exclaimed  aloud,  happy 
at  and  satisfied  with  the  little  romance  I  had 
woven  upon  a  real  theme. 

Thereupon  I  went  to  bed,  after  setting  my 
alarm  clock  for  half  past  four. 

The  latter  was  a  very  unnecessary  precaution. 
All  night  in  half  dreams  I  witnessed  the  coming 
duel,  and  always  I  would  see  Kermoysan  lying 
on  the  ground,  a  ghastly  wound  in  his  breast, 
his  eyes  dimmed  by  the  mist  of  death.  He 
would  call  me  to  him,  his  lips  would  move,  he 
would  seek  to  tell  me  something,  a  secret  the 
anguish  of  which  would  bring  back  for  a  mo- 
ment the  brightness  to  his  eyes,  but  although  I 
made  every  effort  to  do  so  I  could  not  hear  his 
words.  Two  or  three  times  the  face  of  Mme. 
Herdevin  would  enter  into  my  nightmare, 
vaguely,  indistinctly,  but  I  was  never  able  to 
determine  why  or  wherefore  she  was  there. 
Then  these  visions  would  vanish ;  I  would  re- 
light my  candle  only  to  see  that  the  intermin- 
able nightmare  had  lasted  but  a  few  minutes. 

Impatient,  at  last,  at  not  being  able  to  rid  my- 
self of  these  sinister  dreams  I  rose  and  took  a 
book  to  calm  myself  pending  the  time  ap- 
pointed. 

On  leaving  my  Toqni  I  inet  Captaw  Loz^er  jt^ 
the  hallway, 


A  History — Kci'moysan.  65 

"  Feared  you  might  oversleep  yourself."  he 
said  touching  his  hat. 

"  I  haven't  closed  my  eyes,"  I  responded. 

"  Don't  be  afraid!  .  .  .  Known  him  since  he 
was  a  child.  .  .  .  Very  brave,"  he  chopped  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

"  The  doctor  ?"  I  asked,  unconsciously  imitat- 
ing his  laconicism. 

"  He'll  follow,"  was  the  reply. 

And  I  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice 
again  until  we  reached  Kermoysan's. 

Kermoysan  was  perfectly  calm,  without  the 
slightest  affectation.  In  the  carriage  he  spoke 
little,  but  the  few  sentences  he  did  utter  showed 
that  his  mind  was  quite  at  ease.  There  was  a 
dreamy  look  in  his  eyes.  I  really  believe  that  he 
was  thinking  of  something  else  than  his  duel.  It 
was  no  doubt  the  same  constant  thought,  that 
thought  which  separated  him  from  others,  that 
isolated  him  as  a  prison,  that  I  fancied  I  had  de- 
ciphered the  day  before,  and  which  now  became 
clouded  in  new  mysteries. 

We  arrived  at  the  place  appointed  before  Lu- 
cand  and  his  friend,  who,  however,  did  not  keep 
us  waiting  along.  Lucaud  appeared  nervous,  or 
at  least  more  excited  than  he  ought  to  have  been. 
He  watched  with  ill-disguised  attention  the  pre- 
parations which  the  seconds  went  about  in  the 
usual  and  prescribed  way,  and  of  which  Kermoy- 
Sau  Qu  the  other  hand  took  no  notice.     It  was 


66  The  Sacrifice  of  Sile-:cc. 

the  captain  who  gave  the  word  for  the  duel  to 
begin,  with  the  traditional: 
"  Allez,  messieurs !" 

At  the  same  time,  without  taking  his  eyes  off 
them,  he  repeated  the  reassuring  remark  he  had 
made  on  greeting  me- 

"  Very  brave.  .  .  .  Sure  of  him.  .  .  .  Nothing 
to  fear!" 

I  stood  in  need  of  this  assurance,  for  I  was  so 
agitated  that  I  could  not  conceal  my  emotion. 

However,  it  was  soon  over.  The  two  adver- 
saries had  not  crossed  swords  more  than  a  minute 
when  Lucand,  pricked  in  the  shoulder,  dropped 
nis  weapon.  His  doctor  went  up  to  him,  de- 
clared that  the  wound  placed  him  in  a  state  of 
inferiority,  and  it  only  remained  for  us  to  draw 
up  the  proces- verbal.  As  we  were  finishing  it 
Lucand,  whose  wound  had  been  dressed,  ap- 
pioached  Kermoysan  with  outstretched  hand. 
Kermoysan  looked  at  him  disdainfully,  put  his 
hands  behind  him  and  walked  off  while  Lucand 
made  a  gesture  of  anger  and  hatred. 

"  I  ought  to  have  shaken  hands  with  him,"  said 
Kermoysan  an  instant  later.  "  He  w^ill  recom- 
mence and " 

He  broke  off,  remained  pensive,  then  con- 
cluded with  a  gesture  of  uneasiness, 

"  One  ought  never  to  have  any  enemies." 

I  could  not  resist  connecting  these  words  with 
the  apprehension  of  further  attacks  he  had  ex- 
pressed the  previous  day,  and  again  thought  my 


A  History — Kermoysan.  67 

deductions  must  be  very  near  to  the  truth. 
These  were  strengthened  by  a  little  incident. 

We  were  to  lunch  together,  at  Voisin's,  I  think 
it  was.  In  passing  a  news-stand  Kermoysan 
stopped  the  carriage  to  buy  a  Figaro.  He  opened 
it,  ran  his  eye  ov2r  the  column  of  •'  Echoes,"  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  in  which  there  was  more 
discouragement  than  anger: 

"  Ah  !  what  a  nuisance!" 

At  the  same  time  he  showed  us  a  paragraph 
in  which  the  encounter  that  had  just  taken  place, 
was  announced. 

"What  does  it  matter,  since  it's  all  over?" 
asked  the  Captain  naively. 

"  But  the  proces- verbal  will  not  appear  imtil 
the  evening's  papers  are  out,"  said  Kermoysan. 

This  remark  had  escaped  him.  He  bit  his  lips 
with  vexation,  was  silent  and  appeared  to  be  ab- 
sorbed in  deep  thought. 

"  I  must  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  but  I  must  absolutely " 

He  interrupted  himself  like  a  man  who  hesi- 
tates before  making  up  his  mind,  then  having 
decided  went  on: 

"  Yes,  I  positively  must  go  home." 

He  gave  his  address  to  the  coachm.an  and 
lapsed  into  silence.  He  seemed  much  more 
anxious,  much  more  nervous,  than  when  we  set 
out  and  did  not  hide  or  did  not  succeed  in  hiding, 
his  annoyance. 

We  waited  for  him  in  the  carriage  while   he 


68  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

went  upstairs.  I  tried  to  get  into  conversation 
with  the  captain. 

"  It  passed  off  very  well,"  I  ventured. 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Very  well.  .  .  .  Said  so,"  he  re- 
plied, and  I  could  only  get  monosyllables  out  of 
him. 

Kermoysan  at  length  came  down,  carrying  a 
book  wrapped  in  paper.  He  hailed  an  empty 
cab,  handed  the  parcel  to  the  driver,  showed  him 
the  address,  and  I  heard  him  repeat  twice  to  the 
man 

"  You  will  say  that  you  met  me  as  I  was  com- 
ing back  from  the  Bois — as  I  was  coming  back 
from  the  Bois-  you  understand  ?" 

The  cabman  appeared  to  understand,  and 
whipped  up  his  horse.      Kermoysan  rejoined  us. 

"  Let  us  go  to  luncheon,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
dying  of  hunger.     You  also,  I  imagine." 

And  he  endeavored  to  forget  his  preoccupa- 
tion. 

"  He  no  doubt  has  found  means  to  reassure 
the  person  he  wanted  to."'  I  thought. 

Anyhow  he  ate  with  a  good  appetite  and  con- 
versed with  animation. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

Following  these  incidents  a  semi-intimacy  that 
abolished  in  part  the  difference  in  our  ages  was 
established  between  Kermoysan  and  myself.  I 
saw  him  often.  On  his  part,  without  issuing  from 
that  reserve  which  had  ended  by  becoming  a 
trait  of  his  character,  he  was  more  cordial  to  me. 
He  spoke  to  me  with  a  certain  freedom  of  his 
work,  his  reading,  his  books,  but  never  of  him- 
self. When  we  met  in  society  he  came  to  me 
with  outstretched  hand  and  a  smile  that  was 
almost  affectionate.  When  I  rang  at  his  door 
Adolphe  received  me  with  that  air  of  confidence 
that  old  servants  reserve  for  friends  of  their 
masters.  Not  infrequently  Kermoysan,  puffing 
but  kindly  of  manner,  climbed  my  six  flights  of 
stairs.  Nevertheless  he  remained  a  stranger  to 
me,  while  a  doubt  prevented  me  from  freely 
enjoying  his  friendship;  I  was  always  a  little 
afraid  that  he  accorded  it  as  being  due  becatise 
he  was  under  an  obligation  to  me. 

By  a  singular  coincidence  my  relations  with 
Mme.  Herdevin  also  became  more  familiar,  in  a 
similar  way.  She  now  treated  me  as  a  friend,  a 
very  young  friend  whom  one  esteems  above  his 
years.  Our  conversations  when  I  called  upon 
her  or  met  her  in  society  became  more  familiar, 


70  TJie  Sixcrijicc  of  Silence. 

free  from  conventional  commonplaces.  I  thus 
realized  my  dream  oa  first  seeing  her:  I  entered 
into  her  circle  of  intimates,  I  breathed  her  air,  I 
was  able  to  enjoy  her  presence,  her  voice,  her 
charm,  that  charm  to  which  I  was  still  subjected, 
and  which  it  would  still  have  been  impossible 
for  me  to  explain.  Btit  the  nearer  I  got  to  her, 
the  more  the  sentiments  with  which  she  inspired 
me  became  modified:  the  nuance  of  love  which 
at  the  outset  tinted  them  with  a  vague  hope,  had 
given  place  to  an  enthusiastic  friendship,  an 
absolute  and  entirely  disinterested  devotion,  as 
though  I  had  understood  that  never  should  I  exist 
for  her,  that  never  would  she  play  any  part  in 
my  life  any  more  than  I  in  hers,  that  to  the  end 
we  should  remain  strangers  whose  destinies 
would  now  and  then  be  slightly  mingled  by  the 
caprice  of  fate  in  episodes  the  meaning  of  which 
might  very  well  escape  me. 

On  the  other  hand  I  could  scarcely  think  of 
her  without  at  once  thinking  of  Kermoysan. 
Their  two  figures,  their  two  names,  were  asso- 
ciated in  my  mind  although  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  indicated  that  there  existed  any  partic- 
ular tie  between  them.  On  the  contrary,  Ker- 
moysan visited  her  less  frequently  than  I  did. 
It  is  true  their  conversation,  when  they  isolated 
themselves  for  an  instant  in  the  corner  of  some 
drawing-room,  seemed  to  absorb  all  their  atten- 
tion; but  they  never  remained  together  longer 
than  a  minute  or  two,  and  often  they  seemed  tq 


A  History — Kermoysan.  71 

avoid  rather  than  seek  each  other.  My  impres- 
sion was  none  the  less  acute.  I  ought  to  say, 
though,  that  it  was  not  definable.  I  never  went 
so  far  as  to  suspect  that  they  wore  one  for  the 
other  that  mysterious  thought  which  I  read  on 
their  brows. 

However  closely  one  observes  other  people, 
one  sees  but  little.  I  flattered  myself  that  I  was 
being  treated  as  a  friend  by  Mme.  Herdevin,  and 
at  that  very  moment  she  was  going  through  a 
crisis  about  which  everybody  was  talking  while 

I  knew  nothing  about  it.     It  was  Mme.  B 

who  enlightened  me. 

"  You  are  still  enthusiastic  about  Mme.  Her- 
devin ?"  she  queried  one  day  with  that  kindly 
irony  which  she  sometimes  assumed  when  talk- 
ing to  me. 

"  The  better  I  know  her,  the  more  enthusiastic 
I  become,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Ah  I  you  know  her  better,"  she  said,  accent- 
uating her  irony.  "  Do  yoii  know  that  you  are 
very   fortunate  ?  .  .  .  .     These    young   people ! 

I,  who  have  known  her  for  ten  years, 

know  her  less  and  less.  Do  you  often  call  upon 
her"' 

"  As  often  as  I  decently  can." 

*'  That  means  two  or  three  times  a  week  ?" 

I  reddened  as  I  replied : 

"  Not  quite  as  often  as  that." 

"  But   about   that,"   observed   Mme.  B 

slyly. 


*]2  The  Saci'ijice  of  Silence. 

"  And  you  have  never  noticed  anything  par- 
ticular ?"  she  asked  gazing  at  me  with  a  slightly 
taunting  look. 

This  unexpected  question  astonished  me. 

"  Particular  ?"  I  repeated,  trying  to  think  what 
she  might   mean.     "  No,  nothing;  I  think  not." 

I  added: 

"  M.  Herdevin  is  never  there;  you  your- 
self told  me  that  this  would  be  the  case.  Now 
and  then  I  have  seen  her  little  girl  who  is  ill, 
and  who  is  much  with  her,  but  whom  a  maid 
carries  away  as  soon  as  anybody  calls." 

My  old  friend  shook  her  head. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  seen  ?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  A  husband  who  is  never  there,  and  a  child  who 
is  ill.  Nothing  more.  Well  it  is  a  real  case  of 
'  eyes  has  he  and  sees  not.'  " 

When  one  is  young  one  rather  likes  to  be 
considered  perspicacious.  Nevertheless  I  did 
not  feel  mortified  at  having  thus  been  caugrht, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  anguish  seized  my 
heart  wnth  the  sudden  fear  of  a  revelation  that 
would  spoil  Mme.  Herdevin  in  my  sight. 

"  Is  there,  then,  something  else  ?"  I  cried. 
"  What  is  it  ?" 

There  was  in  this  cry  which  escaped  me  such 

alarm  and  naivete  that   Mme.  B could   not 

help  laughing.  But  her  laiighter  soon  died 
away  and  an  expression  of  tender  pity  came 
into  her  face. 


A  History — Kcnnoysait.  "j^ 

"  Oh !  dramas,"  she  said  sadly,  "  family 
dramas." 

"  Do  you  know  about  them  ?" 

"  Everybody  does;  nothing  else  is  spoken  of." 

This  time  I  did  feel  a  trifle  mortified  in  my 
amour-propre  as  an  observer.  But  curiosity,  or 
rather  interest,  got  the  better  of  every  other 
sentiment. 

"  I   haven't     heard     anything    said "  I 

began. 

Mme  B interrupted  me : 

"  And  '  ears  has  he  and  hears  not  I'  " 

I  capitulated. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  must  acknowledge  that  I 
am  not  very  smart." 

She  did  not  keep  me  begging  any  longer, 

"  Ah !"  she  began.  "  The  poor  woman  is  very 
unhappy  I  Vou  know  her  husband  is  an  abomi- 
nable man  ?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"But  you  don't  know  how  abominable  he  is. 
He  torments  her,  he  neglects  her,  and  he  de- 
ceives her — that  goes  without  saying.  He  robs 
her  a  bit,  too,  I  think,  for  she  had  a  very  hand- 
some fortune  which  he  handles  as  if  it  belonged 
to  him.  She  supports  everything  without  com- 
plaint. You  wouldn't  dream  of  what  he  has 
imagined  now.  He  wants  positively  to  get  a 
divorce!" 

Mme.  B put  into  this  word  all  the  horror 

that  persons  of  her    age  and    class  profess  for 


74  T^^i(^  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

divorce,  which  the  Naquet  law  had  just  insti- 
tuted. I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  show 
her  that  upon  this  point  I  differed  with  her. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  think  that  if  I  were  in  her 
place  I  should  ask  nothing  better." 

My  old  friend  menaced  me  with  her  fan : 

"  Be  quiet !  You  have  no  principles,  you 
young  people  of  to-day;  nothing  is  sacred  for 
you." 

Then  in  a  graver  voice: 

"  Besides,  in  her  case  it  is  not  a  question  of 
theoretical  opinion.  You  forget  she  is  a  mother. 
However  unhappy  she  may  be  she  will  bear 
everything  for  her  children's  sake.  Two  little 
girls — think  of  it !  She  knows  only  too  well  how 
it  passes.  In  the  end  it  is  always  the  woman 
who  is  in  the  wrong,  and  the  children  suffer 
from  it  in  the  future — all  their  lives." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  though,  that  if  she  suffers 
too  much " 

Mme.  B looked  at  me. 

"  A  mother,"  she  said,  "  never  suffers  so  that 
she  will  not  take  upon  herself  the  ill  that  menaces 
her  children.  And  then,  that  is  not  all.  You 
pretend  to  know  Mme.  Herdevin:  I  see  that  you 
know  precious  little  about  her.  You  do  not 
know  to  what  point  she  is  a  '  woman  '  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word.  Now,  women — good  women 
— have  certain  delicate  instincts  and  sentiments 
that  never  will  adapt  themselves  to  your  laws, 
even  though  you  profess  to  make  these  laws  for 


A  History — Kermoysan.  75 

women.  That  to  which  we  cling  more  than  to 
happiness,  more  than  to  anything  else,  is  the 
right  to  keep  our  sentiments  and  our  life  for 
ourselves.  There  is  not  one  of  us — I  allude  to 
those  who  count  for  anything — who  is  not  ready 
to  sacrifice  the  peace  of  her  existence  to  avert  a 
scandal.  That  is  certainly  how  Mme.  Herdevin 
feels;  of  this  you  can  be  sure.  For  that  matter, 
she  has  told  me  so — for  she  confides  in  me  some- 
times. Yes,  the  other  day,  in  confirming  the 
rumors  about  her  family  troubles  that  have  been 
circulating,  she  said  in  substance  this: 

" '  I  will  never  give  in,  whatever  he  may  do. 
I  have  a  certain  ideal  of  propriety  from  which  I 
will  not  swerve  at  any  price.  I  will  not  have 
anything  in  my  life  that  can  give  rise  to  discus- 
sion. I  should  die  were  I  to  see  my  name  in 
the  papers  and  to  know  that  it  is  in  everybody's 
mouth.' 

"  This  is  how  she  spoke  to  me,  and  it  is  truly 
the  language  of  a  woman.  What  do  you  think 
about  it,  monsieur  the  psychologist  ?" 

Feeling  I  must  say  something  I  observed: 
"  Then  it  is  the  religion  of  silence  ?" 

"  That  is  it  exactly,"  said  Mme.  B ,  "  the 

religion  of  silence.  It  is  a  religion  that  is  com- 
mon to  all  people  of  heart.  And  no  one  knows 
the  heavy  sacrifices  which  it  sometimes  im- 
poses." 

At  this  instant  the  memory  of  Kermoysan's 
duel  came  into  my  mind,  although  there  was  no 


76  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

visible  correlation  between  the  efforts  which  he 
had  made  to  keep  his  encounter  with  Liicand 
from  becoming  known  and  the  sacrifice  which 
the  fear  of  scandal  cost  ]Mme.  Hcrdevin.  It 
came  to  me  so  rapidly  that  I  almost  blurted  out 
a  remark  I  should  have  regretted.  I  checked 
myself  in  time,  however,  and  asked  instead: 

"  But  why  is  he  so  bent  upon  getting  a  divorce, 
this  horrible  man  ?     Is  his  wife  in  his  wav  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  He  doesn't  exist  for  her. 
She  allows  him  all  the  freedom  he  can  desire. 
So  much  so  that  one  might  think  she  sees  noth- 
ing he  does,  or  rather  that  she  doesn't  see  him 
himself,  that  she  ignores  him  utterly." 

"  Well,  then  ?" 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Decidedly,  you  don't  know  any  more  about 
men  than  you  do  about  women.  Come,  now; 
reflect  a  little.  How  is  it  that  a  man  of  his 
stamp  can  want  a  divorce  ?" 

"  From  motives  of  interest  ?" 

"  That  might  be,  of  course,  but  it  isn't.  Her- 
devin  wants  a  divorce  so  that  he  can  marry  a 
good-for-nothing  hussy  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  it, 
purely  and  simply  .  .  .  You  sec,  there  is  a 
justice.  Rascals  such  as  he  always  end  by  get- 
ting hold  of  a  woman  who  is  even  worse  than 
themselves.  That  is  precisely  what  has  hap- 
pened in  this  instance.  He  wants  to  get  rid  of 
his  wife  for  the  benefit  of  the  jade  who  has  been 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  77 

fleecing  him  for  two  or  three  years  and  now 
that  she  is  gorged  with  his  money  wants  his 
name  as  well.  That's  how  it  is.  What  do  you 
think  of  it  ?" 

At  this  moment  a  visitor  was  announced  and 
the  conversation  changed.  I  took  but  little  part 
in  it.  I  was  thinking  upon  what  I  had  just 
heard.  "  What !"  said  I  to  myself,  "  there  are  so 
many  sorrows  borne  daily,  such  ceaseless  resig- 
nation m  an  existence  with  which  I  am  more  or 
less  in  contact,  and  I  have  noticed  nothing,  seen 
not  a  trace,  not  a  sign  that  would  have  led  me 
to  suspect  it '  Ah !  the  religion  of  silence  is  a 
fine  and  strong  rehgion!  It  tries  its  adepts 
sorely:  it  tempers  them,  it  must  ennoble  them." 

And  I  added : 

"  But  one  never  knows  all  the  secrets  it  en- 
velops in  its  mysteries.  V/ho  knows  but  what 
this  poor  woman  has  other  unknown  sorrows — or 
perchance  joys,  joys  as  mysterious  as  her  suffer- 
ing, or  even  better  dissembled,  by  which  she  is 
consoled  ?" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

One  day  I  called  at  Kermoysan's  to  thank 
him  for  a  service  he  had  rendered  me  in  connec- 
tion with  a  book  I  was  publishing.  As  usual 
honest  Adolphe  opened  the  door,  but  instead  of 
beaming  upon  mo  as  he  ordinarily  did,  he  wore 
a  very  disconsolate  air. 

"  Ah '  monsieur,"  he  said,  shaking  his  vener- 
able head,  "  what  a  misfortune !" 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  demanded  in  alarm. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  monsieur  ?  The  matter 
is  that  my  master  is  going  away  .  .  .  And 
to  such  countries!  We  who  were  so  quiet  and 
comfortable^" 

He  added,  lowering  his  voice: 

"  It's  far  better  to  be  the  servant  of  a  good 
master  than  to  be  in  the  service  of  the  govern- 
ment, I  can  tell  you." 

I  did  not  wait  to  answer  him,  but  hurried  in. 
Kermoysan,  in  fez  and  smoking  jacket, notwith- 
standing that  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock,  was 
putting  his  study  in  order. 

"  It  is  true  that  you  are  going  away  ?"  I  asked 
as  I  shook  hands  with  him. 

"  Yes  ....  order  from  the  Ministry  .... 
aboard  the  Triton. "" 

"  And — you  don't  care  about  it  ?" 
[78J 


A  History — Kcrmoysan,  79 

"  Not  much.  I  had  some  business  to  attend 
to,  proofs  of  a  volume  to  read.  Really,  I  should 
very  much  have  preferred  to  spend  the  winter 
here." 

He  added: 

"  I  have  got  to  go  to  Senegal.  I  don't  like 
Africa  much." 

"  You  would  have  preferred  to  go  somewhere 
else  ?" 

"  Yes,  without  doubt,  elsewhere." 

Then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  without 
noticing  the  fact  that  he  was  contradicting  what 
he  had  just  said  he  continued : 

"  Besides,  it  was  time  I  did  travel  a  little.  One 
gets  rusty  sticking  always  in  the  same  place." 

He  was  more  absent-minded,  more  close  than 
ever.  Seeing  that  it  was  disagreeable  to  him  to 
speak  about  his  departure,  I  broached  the  sub- 
ject of  the  business  that  had  brought  me  there. 
He  scarcely  listened  to  my  thanks,  and  merely 
remarked  in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  indifference: 

"  You  have  succeeded  ?  Good.  So  much  the 
better!     So  much  the  better!" 

I  saw  that  he  wished  to  be  alone  and  took  my 
leave. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  again,"  he  said  as  he 
showed  me  to  the  door. 

And  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  said,  on  the  con- 
trary, such  discouragement  was  there  in  hi§ 
voice ;  • 


8o  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"  Come,  or  don't  come,  it's  all  the  same  to  me, 
for  everything  is  all  the  same  to  me.  now!" 

The  news  of  his  approaching  departure  spread 
rapidly  among  his  circle  of  friends,  and  much 
regret  was  expressed.  Why  could  not  the 
Ministry  leave  him  alone  ?  Why  should  it  have 
fixed  upon  Kermoysan,  who  had  friends  and 
talent,  when  there  were  at  its  disposal  so  many 
unknown  and  unimportant  officers  who  were  only 
too  ready  to  go  globe  trotting  ? 

"  The  Government  is  always  doing  things  like 

that,"  remarked  Mme.  B ,  in  accord  with 

Adolphe  on  this  point.  ",One  should  never  be 
at  the  Government's  orders!" 

The  time  passed  rapidly.  Kermoysan,  who 
was  more  sought  after  than  ever,  scarcely  had 
time  to  make  his  preparations  for  the  voyage. 
He  no  longer  complained  at  having  to  go;  on 
the  contrary, 

"  It  is  my  profession,"  he  said.  "  I  love  it. 
Australia,  Africa,  America,  what  does  it  matter  ? 
One  is  well  off  wherever  one  goes." 

Occasionally,  though,  he  lapsed  into  pensive 
silence,  from  which  he  aroused  himself  as  soon 
as  he  saw  that  he  was  observed;  then  he  talked 
too  much,  as  people  do  who  not  only  seek  to 
hide  their  real  thoughts,  but  also  the  fact  that 
they  are  thinking  of  anything  in  particular.  His 
own,  undecipherable  thought  was  ever  there. 

On  the  eve  of  the  day  fixed  for  his  departure 
Mme,  B ^gave   a    dinner  in   his  honor   to 


A  History — Kermoysan.  8i 

which  only  a  few  of  his  personal  friends  were 
invited.  I  was  among  them,  and  found  myself 
seated  next  to  Mme.  Herdevin.  She  was  less 
talkative,  more  distracted,  more  absent  than 
customary.  Vainly  I  sought  to  interest  her;  she 
scarcely  replied,  and  then  only  with  effort.  Now 
and  then  she  appeared  to  follow  the  general  con- 
versation, but  I  could  see  that  she  was  not  really 
listening  and  that  her  air  of  interest  was  assumed 
in  order  to  give  greater  freedom  to  her  thoughts. 
Seated  almost  opposite  to  her,  Kermoysan  spoke 
spasmodically,  without  any  animation.  At  one 
time,  during  one  of  those  intervals  of  silence 
which  always  occur  in  assemblies  when  the  con- 
versation languishes,  I  heard  him  reply  in  about 
the  following  terms  to  some  remark  of  his  neigh- 
bor. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  disguising  the  fact,  Mad- 
ame, the  hour  of  departure  is  always  a  serious 
one.  I  have  never  started,  even  on  a  short 
voyage,  without  feeling  some  emotion.  It  is  as 
though  the  thread  of  your  destiny  were  being 
broken;  you  know  well  enough  that  it  will  be 
knotted  together  again,  or,  at  leas*-,  that  it  proba- 
bly will  be,  but  you  do  not  know  how.  One 
would  have  to  be  frivolous  indeed,  to  set  out 
without  experiencing  some  inquietude  in  face  of 
the  unknown,  and  very  insensible  to  leave  with- 
out regrets." 

I  looked  at  Mme.  Herdevin.     She  had  lowered 


82  The  Sacrifice  of  Sile7ice. 

her  eyes.  Turning  toward  me,  while  the  con- 
versation revived  around  the  table,  she  said: 

"  M.  Kermoysan  must  be  blase  as  to  these 
emotions:  he  has  experienced  them  so  often!" 

Her  voice,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  slightly 
stifled.  I  was  about  to  respond  with  some  com- 
monplace remark  when  I  heard  at  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  the  hoarse  laugh  of  Herdevin,  who 
for  a  wonder  had  accompanied  his  wife.  My 
neighbor  turned  away  with  an  expression  so 
pained,  so  tragical,  that  the  remark  died  on  my 
lips. 

In  the  smoking  room,  where  Mme.  B sent 

those  of  her  guests  who  wanted  to  enjoy  a  cigar, 
Herdevin  buttonholed  Kermoysan  and  asked  him 
what  he  thoiight  of  negresses. 

"  For  there's  nothing  else  out  there,  eh  ?"  he 
queried. 

Kermoysan  answered  coldly: 

"  Their  skin  is  oily,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them." 

"  For  my  part "  said  Herdevin, 

And  he  began  to  explain  with  much  gesticula- 
tion and  laughter  his  opinion  upon  women  and 
his  theory  of  love.  Kermoysan  listened  to  him 
with  ill-disguised  impatience;  he  was  becoming 
visibly  restless.  '  Finally,  he  interrupted  him,  say- 
ing with  his  loftiest  air,  and  with  a  coldness  that 
was  positively  rude: 

"  There  are  as  many  manners  of  judging  wo- 
men as  there  are  different  qualities  of  men." 


A  History — Kermoysan.  8 


J 


And  they  went  on  to  talk  about  Senegal. 

On  returning  to  the  drawing  room  I  noticed 
that  Mme.  Herdevin   was  very  pale,  and  could 

hardly   keep   tip.     Mme.    B ,  in     fact,  went 

over  to  her  and  inquired  affectionately: 

"  Are  you  unwell,  dear  ? ' 

"  I  have  a  bit  of  a  headache,  but  it  does  not 
amount  to  much:  it  is  nothing  to  s^peak  of," 
Mme.  Hendevin  assured  her. 

Her  face  which  v^'as  becom'ing  drawn  in  an 
expression  of  pain  that  amounted  to  agony,  be- 
lied this  assurance. 

One  of  the    charms    of    Mme.   B 's   large 

salon  was  that  it  was  made  up  of  recesses  ar- 
ranged with  infinite  art  with  screens,  easy  chairs 
and  little  tables  in  such  wise  that  a  general  con- 
versation was  impossible.     Mme.  B detested 

a  general  conversation.  Witty  people,  she  de- 
clared, were  always  a  little  more  stupid  when 
they  spoke  for  the  gallery  than  when  en  tete-a- 
tete,  and  that,  besides,  it  was  next  to  impossible 
to  get  more  than  four  people  together  without 
there  being  at  least  one  fool  among  them.  She 
thought  she  was  making  it  more  pleasant  for  her 
guests  by  dividing  them  tip  into  little  parties. 
Groups  therefore  were  formed.  I  was  unlucky; 
I  was  made  the  victim  of  Herdevin .  He  forced 
me  into  a  corner  of  a  two- place  sofa,  ensconced 
himself  at  his  ease  and  without  regard  to  my 
comfort,  crossed  his  legs,  and  began  to  talk  aboi:t 


84  Tfi-c  Sacrijice  of  Silence. 

his  horses,  his  affairs,  his  clubs  and  his  mis- 
tresses. 

Fortunately  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who 
are  quite  willing  to  do  ail  the  talking  themselves 
and  do  not  exact  replies.  Now  and  then  I 
grunted  approval,  nodded  my  head  with  an  atten- 
tive air,  uttered  an  occasional  '  yes,'  and  he  was 
perfectly  satisfied.  It  got  at  last  so  that  his  talk 
did  not  disturb  me  more  than  the  recitation  of  a 
monologue  or  the  singing  of  an  air  from  an  opera, 
and  I  thought  only  of  vague  things  and  watched, 
not  without  envy,  the  other  groups. 

I  could  not  see  Kermoysan.  "  Has  he  already 
left  ?"  I  asked  myself  as  I  looked  around.  He 
had  not,  and  at  last  I  caught  sight  of  him.  He 
was  in  one  of  the  angles  of  the  salon,  seated  be- 
side Mme.  Herdevin  on  a  sofa  similar  to  that  in 
which  I  was  forcibly  detained.  They  were 
partly  hidden  by  a  small  English  screen  of  pale 
green  polished  wood  and  the  large  leaves  of  the 
plants  in  a  jardiniere.  They  were  practically 
isolated  in  this  quiet  corner,  and  thanks  to  the 
customs  of  the  house  could  stay  there  without 
attracting  too  much  attention.  They  v\'ere  talk- 
ing slowly,  without  looking  at  each  other.  Often 
Mme.  Herdevin's  face  almost  disappeared  behind 
her  fan.  They  were  in  the  shadow,  but  a  lamp 
having  been  moved  the  light  fell  suddenly  upon 
Kermoysan's  visage.  With  an  instinctive  ges- 
ture he  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  turned 
his  face  away.     It  did  not  last  two  seconds,  but 


A  Histo7'y — Ker7noysa7t.  85 

I  was  gazing  at  him  then,  and  how  could  I  not 
have  been  struck  by  his  expression  ?  His  impas- 
sibility had  vanished :  another,  an  unknown  man 
had  suddenly  appeared  to  me,  a  man  with  an 
anguished,  passionate,  sorrowful  face,  a  face  of 
indescribable  agony  and  despair  that  was  at  once 
hidden  in  the  shadow.  I  was  so  astonished  that 
I  asked  myself  whether  I  had  seen  clearly  or 
whether  his  features  had  not  been  deformed  by 
a  sudden  dimness  of  my  sight.     Then  I  thought: 

"  I  guessed  aright :  they  are  very  intimate. 
Perhaps  she  is  his  confidant.  Perhaps  he  is 
confiding  a  last  message  to  her,  is  forgetting 
himself  for  an  instant  and  showmg  himself  as  he 
really  is." 

About  eleven  o'clock  M.  Herdevin  pulled  out 
his  watch  and  exclaimed: 

"Oh!  oh!" 

I  understood  that  probably  having  an  appoint- 
ment to  keep  he  had  decided  to  terminate  the 
monologue  that  our  conversation  had  practically 
amounted  to.  He  rose;  I  hastened  to  follow  his 
example. 

"  Where  is  my  wife  ?"  he  asked,  looking 
around. 

Then  perceiving  her: 

"  Ah !  there  she  is,  with  the  lion  of  the  fete. 
Let's  go  and  disturb  them." 

Taking  my  arm  he  went  towards  her.  They 
saw  us  coming.  They  had  recovered  their  calm- 
ness or  had  had  time  to  pull  themselves  together. 


86  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

for  I  observed  nothing  but  what  was  perfectly 
natural  in  their  attitude. 

"  You  know  it's  getting  late,"  said  M.  Herdevin 
to  his  wife.     "  I'd  like  to  be  getting  home." 

She  rose  as  though  impelled  by  a  spring, 

"  Let  us  go  home  then,"  she  replied. 

She  turned  to  her  companion. 

"  Monsieur  Kermoysan,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you 
a  pleasant  voyage — and  I  bid  you  au  revoir." 

Kermoysan,  who  had  risen  at  the  same  time 
bowed. 

"  Thank  you,  Madame,  thank  you,"  he  said. 
"  Au  revoir." 

There  was  nothing  in  all  this  that  could  have 
excited  the  slightest  comment;  the  tone,  the 
words,  the  gestures,  differed  in  no  way  from 
those  usually  employed  in  similar  circumstances 
between  persons  who  know  each  other  suffi- 
ciently to  manifest  a  little  interest,  if  only  out  of 
pure  politeness.  What  set  me  thinking  was  pre- 
cisely this  apparent  banalite  of  their  farewell.  It 
contrasted  too  sharply  with  the  emotion  whose 
traces  I  had  just  before  surprised.  I  was  in  a 
measure  forced  to  say  to  myself: 

"  If  they  are  close  friends,  they  hide  their 
friendship  well." 

And  for  the  first  time  a  definite  suspicion 
crossed  my  mind. 

I  dismissed  it.  Mme.  Herdevin  lived  in  the 
light  of  day:  there  could  be  no  mystery  in  her 
existence,     Besides,  how   could  I  admit  that  it 


A  History — Kermoysan.  %"] 

was  possible  for  a  liaison  to  exist  between  two 
persons  whom  I  saw  constantly,  without  its  hav- 
ing been  perceived  by  me,  any  more  than  by 
any  other  of  their  common  friends  ?  Things 
like  that  are  always  divined. 

Kermoysan  went  the  rounds  of  the  groups, 
exchanging  in  all  tranquility,  and  with  the  polite- 
ness of  a  perfect  society  man  a  few  remarks  with 
each.  One  would  have  thought  that  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  his  journey  or  that  he  took  pleas- 
ure in  prolonging  his  last  evening  as  much  as 
possible.  He  was  among  the  last  to  leave.  I 
accompanied  him,  and  bade  him  adieu  beside 
the  cab  that  he  had  hailed. 

"  Shall  we  not  hear  from  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Most  certainly;  I  shall  write  to  my  friends," 
he  replied  without  hesitation. 

"  Do  you  count  me  among  them  ?"  I  asked 
again. 

"  Do  not  doubt  it,  I  pray." 

There  was  an  almost  affectionate  accent  in  his 
voice.     He  added: 

"  Do  not  be  surprised  to  get  a  long  letter  from 
me." 

We  shook  hands.  His  cab  whisked  him  away 
in  the  night,  while  I  went  off  afoot  towards  the 
Rue  Lafayette. 

I  needed  to  walk  and  to  breathe  the  cold  air, 
for  I  was  positively  moved.  There  are  some 
people  who  weep  at  every  funeral,  even  at  those 
which  they  attend  by  chance.     Well,  in  those 


88  The  Sacrijlce  of  Silence. 

days,  leave  takings  easily  had  the  same  effect 
upon  me.  I  know  of  nothing  more  sad.  There 
is  something  bitter,  cruel,  heart-breaking  in  the 
thought  of  that  distance  which  will  increase  a 
little  more  every  day  between  you  and  the  person 
who  is  going  away  to  be  swallowed  up  by  space. 
Separation  has  not,  like  death,  the  excuse  of 
fatality.  It  will  be  maintained  that,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  leaves  the  hope  of  meeting  again. 
Poor  hope,  which  is  so  feeble  when  the  time  for 
parting  comes,  which  opens  the  door  to  so  many 
mortal  pangs !  I  liked  Kermoysan  too  much  not 
to  feel  this  emotion  keenly.  Then  when  I  had 
overcome  it,  I  thought  of  the  unknown  woman 
he  loved,  for  I  had  no  doubt  of  the  existence  or 
of  the  violence  of  this  sentiment  with  which  it 
pleased  me  to  credit  him.  What  a  scene  must 
have  been  the  farewell  between  them  !  Did  he 
preserve  any  of  his  sang-froid,  he  who  lost  it 
when  merely  speaking  of  her  ?  Farewells,  tears, 
despair,  furious  and  vain  revolts  against  destiny, 
all  the  depth  of  love's  distress.  Alas !  I  was  far 
from  suspecting,  what  later  I  found  was  the 
case,  that  this  scene  had  been  enacted  under  my 
eyes,  that  the  formal  an  revoir  exchanged  in  my 
presence  was  the  only  one  they  could  permit 
their  hearts ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Generally  the  absent  are  soon  forgotten: 
too  many  small  cares  daily  have  claims  on  our 
attention  for  it  to  fly  off  to  the  other  end  of  the 
world  after  a  wanderer,  especially  as  there  are 
always  about  us  people  eager  to  take  the  places 
which  departures  have  vacated.  This  however 
was  not  the  case  as  far  as  Kermoysan  was  con- 
cerned. Although  he  was  very  far  away  he  was 
not  out  of  mind.  His  enemies  had  not  laid 
down  their  arms,  and  Mai  main  never  missed  an 
opporttmity  to  exercise  his  venomous  tongue  at 
his  expense.  His  friends  not  only  preserved 
their  whole  affection  for  him,  but  gave  such  a 
large  place  to  him  in  their  conversations,  that 
sometimes  he  seemed  to  be  present.  His  name 
moreover  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the  re- 
views as  though  to  keep  alive  the  memory  of  it. 
Under  his  well  known  pseudonym  were  published 
impressions  of  his  travels,  in  which  the  descrip- 
tions of  the  places  he  visited  held  a  smaller  place 
than  those  of  his  state  of  mind,  now  tender,  now 
bizarre. 

I  kept  a  few  of  these  fragments  which  have 
not  been  collected  in  volimie  form.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  specimen: 

[89] 


QO  TJic  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"The  sea  flees,  always  changins;,  always  the 
same.  It  ripples  in  shivers  of  infinite  tints  of 
blue  to  the  edge  of  the  inaccessible  horizon 
where  ling-er  at  eventide  the  chimerical  confla- 
grations of  the  setting  sun.  Kindly  night  de- 
scends, starless,  sometimes.  I  am  at  my  post  on 
the  poop,  gazing  into  the  mystery  which  sur- 
rounds me,  inspiring  with  the  full  force  of  my 
lungs  the  salt,  cool  air,  listening  to  the  monoto- 
nous wash,  wash,  wash  of  the  rolling  vessel.  For 
awhile  I  pace  to  and  fro;  then  stand  still,  mo- 
tionless. By  degrees  my  immobility  grows  into 
rigidity,  as  though  an  outside  force  had  stopped 
the  action  of  my  nerves  and  muscles,  as  though 
I  were  hypnotized  by  the  distant,  dominant  gaze 
of  an  invisible  eye.  Then  all  sensation  is  lost. 
I  am  plunged  into  a  nothingness,  as  it  were,  of 
which  I  am  vaguely  conscious,  a  nothingness 
that  absorbs  my  senses,  while  the  most  secret 
part  of  my  being  continues  to  live  with  a  life 
intense  and  multiplied,  in  the  yonder  of  space 
and  time,  evoking  minutes  long  passed  that  can 
never  return,  calling,  to  others,  yet  unknown, 
with  an  intensity  of  desire  which,  for  a  second, 
clothes  them  with  a  fantastic  reality  that  how- 
ever vanishes  then  and  there.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  folding  up,  that  I  am  shrinking,  that  I 
am  contracting;  my  feet  no  longer  feel  the  deck 
that  bears  me,  my  hands  no  longer  feel  the  bul- 
wark upon  which  they  rest,  my  eyes  no  longer 
distinguish   the  night.     All   that   is   me   concen- 


A  History — Kermoysan.  9 1 

trates  into  a  sing^le  spot,  into  a  burning  internal 
centre  that  consumes  me.  Is  it  suffering  or  joy? 
I  know  not,  oh!  I  know  not;  but  I  would  live 
again  forever,  to  all  eternity,  these  hours  which 
must  resemble  the  ecstasies  of  mystics  or  the 
dreams  of  opium  eaters.  Sail  on,  O  ship,  come 
unknown  shores,  come  trailing  plants  of  the  trop- 
ics, come  great,  red,  unnamed  butterflies,  come 
the  new  landscapes  that  await  me ;  I  carry  within 
me  flowers  more  beautiful,  horizons  more  vast, 
a  world  of  thoughts  that  beggars  words,  that  I 
express  not,  but  amid  which  I  can  wander  and 
lose  myself  more  surely  than  in  virgin  forests,  in 
an  inebriation  sweeter  than  that  caused  by  the 
most  marvellous  perfumes." 

And  later: 

"I  have  loved  the  scenes  of  the  land.  Erst- 
while my  eyes  feasted  to  satiety  upon  the  play 
of  the  light,  the  brilliancy  of  the  flowers,  the  ma- 
jesticness  of  the  lines,  the  grandeur  or  charm  of 
landscapes.  I  loved,  too,  the  sotmds  of  silence 
in  the  solitudes:  at  times  my  heart  dilated  \\'ith 
an  infinite  joy  although  there  was  nothing  to 
make  it  glad  save  the  sweet,  mysteriously  sympa- 
thetic influences  of  nature.  This  joy  is  no  longer 
known  to  me.  I  am,  alas  I  no  longer  the  slave, 
the  happy  slave,  of  those  fugacious  impressions 
which  the  senses  impart  to  us,  and  which  a  mere 
puff  of  the  breeze  effaces!  I  hold  towards  the 
external  world  a  bitter  independence  from  which 
I    cannot     deliver    myself.       I    belong   to     my 


^2  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

thoughts.  It  is  from  my  own  being  that  arise 
those  images  the  contemplation  of  which  fills  me 
with  ecstasy.  It  is  no  longer  the  varied,  capri- 
cious and  beautiful  forms  of  nature;  it  is  memo- 
ries, "hopes,  frail  and  ever  ready  to  vanish,  that  I 
retain,  that  I  savor,  that  I  caress.  These  fugitive 
sentiments  assume  in  niy  mind  I  know  not  what 
character  of  eternity,  of  an  eternity  more  lasting 
than  that  of  things  which  survive  us,  than  that 
of  oceans  which  never  run  dry,  of  rivers  whose 
waters  are  ever  renewed,  of  continents  that  with- 
stand the  quakings  of  the  globe.  Thus  I  travel 
through  unknown  lands  without  seeing  anything 
save  what  is  reflected  in  my  internal  mirror." 

And  again: 

"God!  ....  I  will  believe  in  Him.  He  must 
exist  for  me.  I  need  that  He  should  exist.  I 
see  Him,  I  feel  Him,  not  in  the  splendor  of  ter- 
restrial scenery  where  some  coarse  minds  seek 
Him,  but  in  my  very  self,  far  beyond  my 
thoughts,  whose  monotonous  play  recommences 
each  morning,  when  my  dreams  end.  By  a  slow 
path,  tortuous,  strewn  w^ith  obstacles,  I  advance 
towards  Him.  The  insignificance  of  the  world 
brings  me  nearer  to  Him.  Peradventure  am  I 
already  nearer  to  Him  than  to  the  sands  in 
which  my  feet  sink,  to  the  waters  into  which  I 
plimge  that  I  may  feel  their  coolness.  I  call  to 
Him  with  all  my  thirst  of  eternity.  I  would  feel 
myself  in  His  hand:  there  I  should  be  free  from 
so  many  trammels  that  weigh  me  down!    And 


A  History — Kej^moysan.  93 

lo!  my  heart  bursts  forth  into  song,  into  inex- 
pressible canticles." 

Neither  in  substance  nor  in  form  did  these 
exalted  effusions  resemble  anything  previously 
written  by  Kermoysan.  They  therefore  caused 
not  a  little  surprise  to  those  who  read  them  and 
gave  rise  to  lively  discussion  upon  his  state  of 
mind  which  everybody  defined  in  his  own  way. 
I  remember  that  after  one  of  these  fragments 
had  been  read  someone  exclaimed: 

•'  This  sort  of  thing  leads  straight  to  Saint 
Sulpice  Seminary." 

Malmain,  who  was  present,  added  maliciously: 
"  Or  to  the  Charenton  Lunatic  Asylum." 
And,  in  fact,  it  was  agreed  that  Kermoysan 
was  no  longer  the  same,  and  that  his  notes  which 
he  published  without  considering  what  effect 
they  would  produce,  did  betray  a  sort  of  aberra- 
tion. Society  is  prone  to  render  such  judgments : 
it  treats  as  a  madman  whoever  departs  from  its 
habitual  moderation,  which,  at  bottom,  is  really 
nothing  but  indifference. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

During  Kermoysan's  absence  Herdevin  lost 
large  sums  of  money.  At  one  time  his  probable 
failure  was  spoken  of.  But  beneath  the  coarse 
pleasure-lover  was  a  fighter,  a  man  of  energy 
and  resource.  After  a  few  days'  struggle  he 
pulled  himself  round.  He  had  changed  nothing 
in  his  mode  of  life.  All  that  was  known  was 
that  he  had  sold  an  extensive  estate  that  his  wife 
owned  in  the  Department  of  the  Allier.  She  had 
been  greatly  attached  to  it.  It  was  a  family  es- 
tate, the  house  in  which  she  had  been  born,  the 
garden  in  which  she  had  played  and  the  woods 
in  which  she  had  roamed  when  a  child.  Every 
summer  she  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  sev- 
eral weeks  there,  and  always  looked  forward  to 
her  stay  with  peculiar  pleasure.  The  sale  must 
have  caused  her  keen  sorrow,  but  no  one  seeing 
her  always  serene  would  have  suspected  it. 
One  had  to  know  her  a  little  to  realize  what  re- 
signation there  was  beneath  her  serenity,  and  to 
hear  behind  the  indifferent  remarks  she  uttered 
with  her  crystal  voice  the  moan  of  her  wounded 
heart.  Mme.  B would  say  to  me  some- 
times : 

[94] 


A  History — Kcnnoysan.  95 

*'  Look  at  her ;  who  would  suspect  what  her 
life  is  ?" 

Why  then  did  I  often  fancy  that  between  her 
sufferings  as  a  wife  and  her  sufferings  as  a 
mother  there  was  another  wound  in  her  heart,  a 
pain  that  others  knew  nothing  of  ?  Certain  de- 
tails of  her  life  contradicted  such  a  suspicion, 
and  one  might  well  have  wondered  how  in  an 
existence  so  well  filled  there  could  be  room  for  a 
romance;  for  a  romance  occupies  a  good  deal 
of  tirne,  and  entails  absences  from  home  that  are 
difficult  to  justify,  lies  that  in  the  end  are  always 
seen  through,  the  complicity  of  a  maid  or  of 
other  persons.  How  was  all  this  possible  in  her 
case  ? 

At  the  beginning  of  the  season  Mme.  Her- 
devin  had  announced  to  her  friends  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  go  out  very  often,  as  the 
condition  of  her  little  Martha  had  grown  worse, 
and  caused  her  the  greatest  anxiety;  but  her 
husband,  fearing  that  her  seclusion  would  be 
attributed  to  the  financial  embarrassment  which 
he  sought  to  dissemble  insisted  that  she  should 
go  into  society  more  often  than  ever.  Where- 
fore she  was  to  be  met  everywhere,  bearing  her 
hidden  grief  valiantly  amid  the  small  talk  of  the 
drawing  rooms,  watching  for  the  chance  to  re- 
turn to  the  little  bedside  where  her  heart  was 
calling  her. 

It  sometimes  happened  that  T  called  upon  her 
a  little  before  her  hours.     On  several  occasions  \ 


g6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

found  her  in  her  boudoir,  where  propped  up  with 
cushions  on  a  sofa  poor  httle  Martha,  withered 
and  shrunken,  her  pale  pain-drawn  face  illu- 
mined by  eyes  all  too  bright,  pushed  her 
toys  away  with  her  long,  thin  fingers.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  child's  look  of  reproach  and  dis- 
tress as  she  was  taken  away  "  because  visitors 
were  coming."  She  made  no  resistance,  how- 
ever, and  Mme.  Herdevin  would  say: 

"  Ah !  you  cannot  tell  how  I  love  her!  I  would 
like  to  do  nothing  else  but  care  for  her,  attend 
to  her  myself  alone,  and  not  leave  her  even  for 
a  minute.     She  is  such  a  dear,  sweet  child." 

Once  she  added: 

"  I  know  that  she  cannot  live." 

And  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Unlike  many  travellers,  Kermoysan  wrote  to 
his  friends  very  often.  These  letters  were  of  an 
entirely  different  character  to  the  "  impressions  " 
he  wrote  for  publication.  They  contained  full 
details  of  what  he  was  doing,  his  mode  of  life, 
and  his  movements,  so  that  one  could  almost  fol- 
low him  from  day  to  day.  As  maybe  imagined, 
these  letters  were  widely  circulated :  fragments 
of  them  were  read  at  five  o'clock  teas  or  at  cosy 
soirees,  and  they  were  much  commented  i:pon 
and  discussed.  I  noticed  that  Mme.  B re- 
ceived several  at  brief  intervals  whereas  Mme. 
Herdevin  did  not  get  a  single  one.  I  received 
one  myself,  as  Kermoysan  had  given  me  to  hope 
I  would,  and  this  under  circumstances  which 
made  it  of  particular  value. 

One  of  those  newspapers  which  are  more  eager 
to  get  news  than  to  tell  the  truth  published  a 
dispatch  one  day  announcing  that  the  Triton  had 
been  lost  with  all  on  board  off  the  Senegalian 
coast.  The  date  of  the  wreck  was  given  together 
with  certain  details  the  object  of  which  no  doubt 
was  to  impart  a  greater  appearance  of  veracity 
to  the  story.  No  news  of  the  disaster  had  been 
received  at  the  Ministry  of  Marine,  however,  and 
this  fact  afforded  some  ground  for  hope.     Ker- 

[97] 


98  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

moysan's  friends  were  naturally  extremely  anx- 
ious, and  for  two  or  three  days  the  possible  loss 
of  the  Triton  was  the  sole  topic  of  conversation. 
The  probability  of  the  news  was  discussed  with 
that  mixture  of  interest  and  indifference,  easily 
aroused  pity  and  ready  forgetfulness  that  go  to 
make  up  social  compassion.  Opinion  varied 
according  to  the  character  of  those  who  gave 

expression  to  them.     Mme.  B ,  optimistic 

as  usual,  scouted  the  idea  that  the  report  could 
be  true,  with  a  good  faith  that  reassured  me. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  insisted.     "  Otherwise 
the  Ministry  would  know  about  it." 
Others  shook  their  heads  and  replied: 
"  At  the  Ministry  they  never  know  anything." 
Everybody,  therefore,  waited  in  suspense. 
It  was  precisely  at  this  time  that  I  received  a 
long  letter  from   Kermoysan.     On  opening  it  I 
saw  at  once  that  the  date  was  several  days  later 
than  that  on  which  the  catastrophe  was  alleged 
to  have  occurred,  and  all  doubt  upon  the  mat- 
ter was  consequently  dispelled. 

Very  happy  to  be  reassured  myself,  and  a  little 
proud  at    being    able  to  reassure  his  friends  I 

hastened   to    call    upon    Mme.    B ,   whom 

Kermoysan  mentioned  among  several  other 
persons,  including  Mme.  Herdevin  to  whom  he 
wished  to  be  remembered.  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  the  two  women  together.  They 
were  alone,  and  received  me  with  an  informality 
that  was  favorable  to  confidences.     Mme.  Her- 


A  History — Kcnnoysan.  99 

devin  appeared  to  be  unwell.  There  was  in  her 
sweet  and  tender  eyes  a  glimmer  of  anguish,  of 
contained  despair,  a  rigid  fixity  which  stiuck  me 
the  more  inasmuch  as  I  had  not  seen  her  for 
some  time.  I  did  not  hesitate  to  attribute  this 
change  to  personal  cares;  I  even  thought  that 
she  had  been  unburdening  her  mind  to  my  old 
friend,  so  that  the  effect  I  hoped  to  produce 
would  be  lost.     I  was  mistaken. 

"  We  were  talking  about    poor  Kermoysan," 

said  Mme.  B ,  as  she  invited  me  to  take  a 

seat  opposite  to  them.     "  We  were  saying " 

Satisfied  now  as  to  the  opportuneness  of  my 
news  I  interrupted  her: 

"  Well,  madame,  you  can  be  quite  easy  about 
him.  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  him, 
which  I  have  brought  with  me.  As  you  will  see 
it  is  dated  a  week  later  than  the  day  of  the 
alleged  accident.     The  report  therefore  is  false." 

I  handed  the  precious  letter  to  the  two  women. 

There  was  in  their  respective  attitudes  a  dif- 
ference such  that  it  would  have  been  impossible 

not  to  notice  it.     Mme.  B ,  expansive  by 

nature,  at  once  manifested  her  joy. 

"  Ah  !  the  brave  fellow!"  she  exclaimed  glanc- 
ine  at  the  sheet  which  she  held  out  to  her  com- 
panion.  "  How  glad  I  am  I  He  will  never  know 
what  days  of  worry  he  has  caused  us." 

Mme.  Herdevin,  w^as  bending  over  the  paper, 
which  she  had  laid  upon  her  muff.  She  did  not 
utter  a  word.     I  w^as  standing  in  front  of  her. 


loo  TJie  Sac7'ijlce  of  Silence. 

I  saw  only  the  almost  imperceptible  movement 
of  her  lowered  eyelids,  bnt  I  fancied  I  heard  her 
sigh  several  times,  a  prey  to  an  emotion  which 
she  tried  hard  to  contain. 

"  May  we  read  it  ?"  queried  Mme.  B . 

I  nodded  affirmatively,  and  turning  to  Mme. 
Herdevin  she  asked : 

"  Are  you  reading  it  ?" 

Mme.  Herdevin  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  nor 
did  she  answer  immediately;  but  in  a  few 
seconds  she  stammered : 

"  I  am  trying  to  ...  .  since  we  have  per- 
mission   It     is     very     difficult 

This  handwriting  is  frightful !" 

"  That    is   true,"  said  Mme.   B .     "  One 

would  think  a  fly  had  been  crawling  over  the 
paper." 

Then  turning  to  me  she  added: 

"  Suppose  you  read  it  to  us;  you  are  used  to 
deciphering  bad  scribbling." 

"  Very  willingly,"  said  I. 

Mme.  Herdevin's  hand  trembled  slightly  as 
she  handed  back  the  letter,  which  I  began  to  read 
aloud.  I  had  to  stop  occasionally  to  make  oiit 
the  small,  indistinct  writing  with  which  I  was 
not  familiar.  It  was  a  very  detailed  account  of 
a  week  passed  at  St.  Louis,  Senegal,  which 
seemed  to  be  the  natural  sequence  of  previous 
narratives,  and  to  take  up  its  author's  life  at  a 
point  where  he  had  left  off.  The  thread  of  it 
was  interrupted  at  frequent  intervals  by  notes, 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  loi 

observations  and  reflections,  so  that  the  letter 
filled  eight  or  ten  pages.  It  was  the  letter  of  an 
indolent    man,  written  slowly,   in  his  hours  of 

idleness,  to  kill  time.     Mme.  B ,  with  her 

habitual  vivacity  of  mind  interrupted  me  from 
time  to  time,  with  such  remarks,  for  instance, 
as: 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  longer  drawn  out 
than  his  books  ?  He  hasn't  spared  you  the 
smallest  detail." 

Or: 

"  What  talent !  One  can  see  all  that  he  de- 
scribes: one  is  positively  in  Senegal  itself.  All 
said  and  done,  it's  a  nasty  place :  I  prefer  Paris." 

Mme.  Herdevin  remained  silent;  but  when, 
having  finished  reading,  I  glanced  at  her  I 
thought  that  another  woman  was  before  me. 
The  care,  anguish  and  pain  with  which  her  face 
had  been  drawn  had  vanished  as  by  magic. 
She  was  beaming  with  a  secret  joy  that  was 
more  difiicult  to  dissemble  than  sorrow,  and  her 
beautiful  eyes  were  tender  and  moist. 

"  I  was  rather  surprised  at  this  nice  letter,"  I 
remarked.  "  I  never  would  have  believed  that 
Kermoysan  would  honor  me  with  such  friend- 
ship." 

"  One  must  never  be  surprised  at  anything  he 

does,"    said    Mme.    B .     "  And    for     that 

matter,  you  needn't  be  too  proud.  He's  fond  of 
writing." 

Then  addressing  Mme.   Herdevin  she  asked ; 


I02  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"  Haven't  you  had  a  letter  from  him  yet  ?" 

This  unexpected  question  embarrassed  Mme, 
Herdevin. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  becoming  pale,  "  I  do  not 
expect  one.  We  are  not  intimate  enough  for 
him  to  write  to  me." 

"Oh!   I'm   sure    he    likes   you    very    much," 

Mme.  B assured  her.     "  You  needn't  be 

afraid;  your  turn  will  come!" 

"  He  writes  very  often.  Was  he  such  a  faith- 
ful correspondent  during  his  previous  voyages  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  He  was  not,"  replied  Mme.  B .     "  He 

left  us  practically  without  news.  Just  a  word  or 
two  now  and  then :  '  I  am  here,  I  am  in  good 
health,  I  am  bored!'  That  was  all.  You  see, 
he  was  too  youug.  The  taste  for  letter  paper 
only  comes  to  those  who  are  getting  old.  I 
wager  you  will  not  find  time  to  reply  to  him." 

"  Indeed  I  shall,  Madame,"  and  at  length,  I 
answered. 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  how  alarmed  about  him  we 
were." 

At  this  moment  a  cloud  came  over  Mme.  Her- 
devin's  brow  again. 

"  Can  we  be  quite  satisfied  that  he  is  safe  ?" 
she  queried  timidly. 

We  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  and  she  ex- 
plained, seeking  her  words  carefully: 

"  This  letter,  it  is  true,  shows  that  at  the  date 
of  the  dispatch  no  accident  had  yet  occurred. 


A  History — Kermoysaii.  103 

But  may  it  not  have  happened  later  ?  Perhaps 
the  mistake  was  only  in  the  date." 

I  endeavored  to  reassure  her,  and  Mme. 
B came  to  my  support. 

"What  a  wild  ideal"  cried  my  old  friend. 
"  Doubt  is  no  longer  possible.  The  report  was 
false,  that  is  evident.  Kermoysan  is  as  well  as 
ever  he  was,  is  not  forgetting  any  of  his  friends 
and  will  return  to  us  one  of  these  fine  mornings, 
a  little  weather  beaten,  a  little  worn,  but  always 
the  same.     That  is  as  clear  as  daylight." 

Mme.  Herdevin  did  not  insist,  but  I  saw  that 
she  had  become  anxious  again,  with  that  un- 
reasonable anxiety  which  finds  ground  for  being 
even  in  things  which  are  against  evidence;  an 
anxiety  peculiar  to  those  who  love,  and  which 
the  presence  and  voice  of  the  loved  one  can  alone 
dispel. 

These  incidents  drew  my  attention  again  to 
the  probable  mystery  of  Kermoysan's  life. 

"  Evidently,"  I  argued,  "  he  writes  so  many 
and  such  lengthy  letters  in  the  hope  that  news 
of  him  will  reach  a  person  to  whom,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  he  cannot  write  directly." 

And  the  attitude  of  Mme.  Herdevin,  the  fact 
that  she  alone  of  all  his  intimate  friends  had 
not,  or  would  not  admit  that  she  had,  received 
a  letter  from  him,  the  nature  of  her  emotion 
and  her  eftorts  to  conceal  it,  and  her  anxiety,  so 
much  deeper,  so  much  keener  than  ours, — all 
these  signs,  taken  together,  gave  definite  shape 


104  ^'^'<"  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

to  my  suspicions.  She  loved  him;  that  I  no 
longer  doubted.  Was  she  loved  in  return  ' 
Was  it  she  of  whom  Kermoysan  was  ceaselessly 
thinking  ?     That  I  could  not  tell. 

However,  I  thought  I  did  well  in  waiting  of 
her  at  length  in  my  reply  to  Kermoysan.  I  re- 
counted the  little  I  knew  about  her  recent  finan- 
cial embarrassments;  I  gave  a  few  details  about 
her  home  and  little  Martha;  I  dwelt  upon  the 
anxiety  she  had  manifested  when  the  false  news 
of  the  loss  of  the  Triton  was  announced,  and  of 
the  deep  interest  she  had  taken  in  his  reassuring 
letter;  I  even  ventured  to  urge  my  friend  to 
write  to  her,  and  endeavored  to  insinuate  with 
all  possible  delicacy  that  his  reserve  towards  her 
when  he  was  so  prodigal  of  his  letters  to  other 
people  might  come  to  be  regarded  as  singular 
by  some  people.  It  was  advice  almost  that  I 
gave  to  him  in  very  covered  phrases.  I  never 
knew  whether  he  saw  through  my  oratorical 
precautions  and  if  he  did  whether  he  followed 
the  advice.  However  this  may  be,  Mme.  Her- 
devin  never  spoke  of  having  received  a  letter 
from  him. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Kermoysan's  absence  was  prolonged  more 
than  he  had  himself  anticipated.  As  long  as  it 
lasted  he  did  not  cease  to  correspond  actively 
with  his  friends,  so  that  he  did  not  leave  us,  so 
to  speak.  We  felt  that  he  was  with  us  continu- 
ously. By  following  him  we  at  last  familiar- 
ized ourselves  with  the  exotic  landscapes  that 
enframed  him  in  our  memory.  We  could  see 
the  mangrove  roots  running  into  the  sluggish 
waters  of  the  river,  the  alligators  dozing  in  the 
mud,  the  fauna,  the  flora,  the  incandescent  skies 
of  that  equatorial  Africa  which  weighed  upon 
him  with  its  whole  heat  and  immensity.  Fur- 
ther on  we  suffered  from  his  ennui,  from  a  home- 
sickness that  we  felt  was  more  cruel  than  he 
avowed,  from  his  longing  to  feel  cold,  to  see 
snow,  for  the  trees,  flowers  and  shade  of  our 
dear  latitudes. 

For  my  part  I  received  several  letters  from 
him,  and  I  remember  I  wrote  him  that  they 
cured  me  of  any  desire  I  might  have  had  to 
make  long  voyages.  Never  did  I  feel  more 
strongly  that  one  must  remain  in  the  corner  of 
the  world  where  one  is  born.  Yes,  we  are  sur- 
rounded with  an  ensemble  of  things  which  be- 
come a  little  of  ourselves,  and  away  from  which 

[105J 


io6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

a  part  of  our  soul  suffers  and  yearns.  The  hot 
light,  the  gigantic  trees,  the  enormous  animals, 
in  brief,  all  the  attractions  which  the  tropics 
offer  to  our  curiosity  are  not  worth  the  cloudy 
skies  in  which  our  fancy  vaults,  the  restful 
shade  of  our  beeches  and  elms,  the  perfumed 
roses  of  our  little  gardens,  and  the  domestic  cats 
that  purr  upon  our  knees. 

Mme.  B would  say  with  a  kindly  smile: 

"  Never  let  us  travel." 

And  I  shared  her  sentiments. 

Was  it  the  effect  of  his  letters,  which  had 
made  it  seem  as  though  he  had  always  been 
with  us  ?  However  this  may  be,  his  return  was 
almost  unnoticed,  so  little  fuss  did  it  occasion. 
One  fine  day,  when  he  was  to  be  met  again 
wherever  he  had  been  accustomed  to  go  before 
his  departure,  it  was  as  though  he  had  never 
left  Paris.  Yet  a  year  of  absence  and  fatigue 
had  aged  him  somewhat.  His  face,  bronzed  by 
the  sun  of  Senegal,  was  thinner;  his  beard  and 
hair  were  whiter,  thus  accentuating  the  contrast 
they  formed  to  his  features  which  remained  ob- 
stinately youthful;  moreover  his  movements 
were  those  of  a  tired  man,  and  there  was  a  cer- 
tain morbidness  of  gesture  and  manner  that  he 
had  not  possessed  before. 

"  M.  Kermoysan  has  aged  very  much,"  people 
said. 

This  was  not  strictly  true,  but  it  expressed  in 


'A  History — Kei^moysan.  I07 

a  simple  phrase  the  impression  he  caused  to  all 
his  friends  on  seeing  him  again. 

He  had  to  give  an  account  of  his  travels;  that 
goes  without  saying.  He  did  so  with  perfect 
good  grace,  without  any  indication  of  displeasure, 
without  apparent  lassitude,  but  without  much 
enthusiasm.  When  he  was  led  to  talk  upon  the 
subject  he  spoke  in  an  almost  low  voice,  without 
accentuating  anything,  yet  with  such  art  that 
each  of  his  words  had  a  sense  of  its  own  and  a 
thousand  coloring  details  seemed  to  issue  there- 
from.    He  was  listened  to  with  such  interest  that 

one  day  Mme.  B ,  delighted  at   some  very 

picturesque  anecdote  and  suddenly  forgetful  of 
her  sedentary  tastes,  exclaimed : 

"Gracious!  how  happy  you  must  be  to  live 
such  a  life,  so  grand,  so  full  of  variety!" 

He  responded  coldly: 

"  Very  happy,  in  effect." 

And  I  noticed,  or  thought  T  noticed,  that  at 
this  very  moment  Mme.  Herdevin  was  following 
him  with  a  scrutinizing  gaze. 

After  his  return  Kermoysan  was  more  cordial 
towards  me. 

"  Your  letters  afforded  me  much  pleasure," 
he  had  said,  as  he  shook  my  hand.  "  You  can 
have  no  idea  how  glad  one  is  to  get  news  of  one's 
friends  when  one  is  separated  from  them  by  half 
the  earth." 

In  the  most  friendly  manner  he  inquired  what 
I  had  been   doing   during   his   absence,   asked 


lo8  The  Sacrijice  of  Silence;- 

about  my  work,  my  plans,  my  new  tastes,  and 
ni)^  literary  opinions  almost  in  the  manner  of  an 
elder  brother.  He  also  begged  me  to  visit  him 
often. 

This  I  did  not  fail  to  do.  We  lunched  several 
times  together,  sometimes  at  a  restaurant,  some- 
times in  his  apartments  where  honest  Adolphe, 
happy  to  be  in  his  service  again,  cooked  admira- 
bly for  him.  Adolphe's  culinary  efforts,  how- 
ever, were  lost  upon  Kermoysan. 

"  Monsieur  is  no  gourmand,"  said  the  old  ser- 
vant to  me,  in  a  burst  of  confidence.  *'  To-day  I 
am  going  to  serve  endive.  You  will  see  that  he 
will  take  it  for  mere  lettuce.  When  I  give  him 
a  partridge  he  never  fails  to  say :  '  Adolphe,  this 
chicken  is  delicious!'  " 

This  is  precisely  what  did  happen.  Occa- 
sionally, when  his  mistake  was  too  bad,  he  would 
feel  constrained  to  excuse  himself  and  would  say: 

"  I  cannot  help  ir,  my  poor  Adolphe,  the 
kouskous  *  has  spoiled  my  palate." 

While  becoming  more  frequent,  and  even 
more  friendly,  my  relations  with  Kermoysan  did 
not  become  much  more  intimate.  We  con- 
versed on  general  subjects,  sometimes  about  me, 
never  about  himself.  He  remained  as  eniofmat- 
ical  to  me  as  at  the  time  when  I  only  saw  him 
at  a  distance,  save  for  the  suspicions  that  had 
entered  my  mind  during  his  absence.     But  these 

*  An  African  stew,  highly  spiced  and  pr-ppered. 


A  History — Ker  may  salt.  TOQ 

suspicions,  after  all,  had  only  been  extremely 
vague,  and  now  the  naturalness  and  simplicity 
of  his  manners  eradicated  them  almost  com- 
pletely.    A  new  incident  was  to  rearouse  them. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?"  asked  Mme. 
B one  day. 

"  What  news  ?" 

"  Oh !  big  news  about  your  friend  Kermoy- 
san." 

I  replied,  thoughtlessly: 

"  Is  he  going  to  get  married  ?" 

My  old  friend  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Always  perspicacious !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  No,  he  is  leaving  the  Navy." 

She  added : 

'*  At  least,  so  well-informed  persons  say.  But 
you  must  know  all  about  it,  you  who  no  longer 
leave  him." 

Kermoysan  had  as  yet  said  nothing  to  me 
about  his  decision.  Two  or  three  days  later, 
however,  he  confirmed  the  news,  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  slight 
importance. 

"  You  who  were  so  fond  of  your  profession,  of 
voyages,  and  foreign  lands!"  I  remarked. 

He  paced  to  and  fro  in  his  study,  amid  the 
rich  stuffs,  the  bizarre  arms,  and  sumptuous 
bibelots  that  reminded  him  of  the  distant  coun- 
tries he  would  see  no  more. 

*'  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  was  fond  of  them,  very 


IIO  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

But,  what  will  you  ?     One  becomes 

sedentary,  gets  old." 

"  Not  you." 

"  I,  like  everybody  else — quicker  perhaps. 
You  can  see  my  hair  is  quite  white.  Anyhow, 
the  matter  is  decided.  I  have  written  to  the 
ministry.  I  am  no  longer  an  officer,  no  longer 
a  sailor." 

"I  trust  you  will  not  regret  it!"  I  remarked 
imprudently. 

I  can  see  him^  now  as  he  stopped  in  front  of 
me,  his  hands  thrust  in  the  pockets  of  his  smok- 
ing jacket,  with  a  thoughtful  look  in  his  eyes,  as 
though  it  were  fixed  upon  something  far  away, 
a  something  that  I  could  not  divine. 

"  No,"  he  said  shaking  his  head,  "  I  shall  not 
regret  it.  In  the  first  place  one  must  never  re- 
gret what  one  has  done:  it  serves  no  purpose 
and  is  a  waste  of  time.     And  then — then " 

He  was  weighing  his  words  or  hesitated  to 
speak.  All  at  once  he  made  up  his  mind,  in  an 
irresistible  need  of  expansion,  speaking  with  a 
volubility  that  was  new  to  me,  with  free  gestic- 
ulation and  in  vibrating  voice: 

"  Well,  what  will  you  ?  These  marching 
orders,  these  departures,  they  break  one's  life 
up  brutally.  One  is  quiet  and  comfortable,  and 
well  content  to  remain  so:  off  to  Africa!  off  to 

Tonkin! And  it  has  to  be  gone  through 

over  and  over  again Yellow  men,  black 

men,  a  procession  of  ugly  monkeys  that  make 


A  History — Kermoysau.  1 1 1 

you   doubt    your   humanity God    only 

knows  where  they  would  have  sent  me  soon,  to 

what  seas,  among  what  savages ! I  have 

seen  too  much :  I  am  weary  of  it,  I  assure  you. 
(He  appeared  to  be  trying  to  convince  himself 
that  this  was  so.)  I  need  a  little  stability  .  .  .  . 
Yes,  stability  ....  Go  all  round  the  world  only 
to  start  again  when  one  has  finished  the  journey, 
no,  no.     Such    a    thing   is  no  longer   in   season 

What  do  I  propose  to  do  ?     Why,  stop 

in   Paris,  like  everybody  else;  there  is  nothing 

very  frightful  in   that I    shall   write — 

turn  out  some    books I  shall    not    find 

time  hang  heavily  upon  my  hands,  you  may  be 
sure.  Indeed,  no!  In  the  first  place  I  am  never 
bored :  ennui,  that  is  only  for  imbeciles." 

He  paused,  and  concluded  with  a  sharp  ges- 
ture: 

"  Besides,  it  is  done.  Therefore,  let  us  say  no 
more  about  it." 

He  was  suffering  visibly.  He  was  not  so  sure 
that  he  was  right  as  he  professed  to  be.  This 
rupture  with  his  career  was  a  tearing  away  also, 
a  departure,  a  farewell,  as  it  w^ere.  And  seeing 
him  so  agitated  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
the  decision  did  not  emanate  from  himself,  but 
that  he  must  be  obeying  his  solicitude  for  some 
dear  one,  whom  he  wished  at  whatever  cost  to 
spare  tears  and  anguish.  Who  knows  but  what 
the  false  report  of  the  loss  of  the  Triton  was  the 
Csiuse  that  impelled  him  to  his  decision  ?     Thea 


1 1  2  TJie  Saco'ijice  of  Silence. 

I  admired  him.  What  mattered  it  whether  he 
was  right  or  wrong  ?  What  mattered  his  career, 
his  future,  his  taste  for  travel  thus  sacrificed  ? 
He  at  least  knew  how  to  love:  this  was  the  es- 
sential thing. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  advent  of  summer  dispersed  us.     Mme. 

B had  invited  me  to  visit  her  at  her  estate 

in  Touraine,  and  I  passed  some  charming  days 
there  in  the  beautiful  country  beneath  a  propi- 
tious sky.  She  had  also  counted  upon  Kermoy- 
san.  He  did  not  keep  his  word,  and  excused 
himself  in  a  note  which  in  no  way  resembled  his 
long  letters  from  Senegal. 

"  He  remembers  his  friends  when  he  is  far 
away  from  them,"  she  said,  with  a  shade  of 
melancholy;  "  when  he  is  near  to  them,  he  forgets 
them." 

We  learned  from  others  that  he  was  wander- 
ing from  resort  to  resort,  alone,  most  unsociably. 
A  letter  from  Mme.  Herdevin,  who  was  in  the 
Pyrenees  for  the  benefit  of  little  Martha's  health, 
apprised  us  that  he  had  spent  a  few  days  at 
Bagneres-de-Luchon,  whence  he  had  visited  her, 
and  that  he  had  gone  to  Biarritz  for  a  longer 
stay.  He  did  not  carry  out  his  plan,  for  a  few 
days  afterwards  he  was  seen  at  Aix-les- Bains.  A 
little  later  I  met  him  myself  in  the  usual  crush  at 
the  railway  station  of  Saint  Germain-des-Fosscs. 
At  first,  I  think,  he  was  not  particularly  pleased 
to  see  a  face  he  knew;  but  this  impression  soon 
disappeared  to  give  place  to  a  very  different  one, 

[113J 


1 1 4  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

and  he  began  to  talk  freely,  like  a  man  who  had 
not  heard  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  nor  that 
of  a  friendly  voice  for  some  time. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  To  Royat,  where  I  have  some  friends." 

"  Are  they  expecting  you  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  when  I  should  arrive." 

"  Well,  then,  come  and  lunch  with  me  at 
Vichy,  will  you  ?  It  will  only  delay  you  half  a 
day." 

I  accepted,  and  he  seemed  pleased.  In  the 
train,  while  looking  at  the  monotonous  land- 
scape, the  long  horizons  with  their  lines  of  pop- 
lars, the  slowly  flowing,  half  dried  rivers,  and 
the  clumps  of  trees  scattered  about  the  fields  he 
explained  that  he  was  being  treated  for  his 
stomach,  from  which  he  had  been  suffering  for 
some  time. 

"  I  am  passing  a  most  lamentable  summer," 
he  said.  "  I  am  bored  to  death.  I  am  tired  of 
hotels  and  sick  of  casinos,  yet  I  drag  myself 
about  with  no  other  object  than  to  shift  from 
place  to  place,  like  an  invalid  who  turns  about 
in  his  bed." 

I  did  not  know  how  to  answer  him.  I  entered 
into  his  views.  I  agreed  that  railways,  hotels 
and  casinos  were  nefarious  inventions,  and  ended 
by  asking  whether  in  the  midst  of  his  wander- 
ings he  did  not  find  some  distraction  in  work. 

"  But  I  am  not  working,"  he  cried  with  a 
gesture  of  discouragement.     "  I  am  doing  abso- 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  115 

Ititely  nothing.  Impossible  to  write  a  line. 
Besides,  I  haven't  an  idea,  not  one.  I  am  com- 
pletely unoccupied.  I  have  dropped  all  corres- 
pondence; I  do  not  even  look  at  a  newspaper." 

He  said  this  in  a  gloomy  voice,  and  with  nerv- 
ous gestures. 

"  Why,"  I  suggested,  "  do  you  not  go  to  Mme. 

B 's,  instead  of  wandering  in  this  way  from 

place  to  place  ?  She  would  be  delighted  to  have 
vou.  She  does  not  expect  many  visitors  now. 
You  would  be  nice  and  quiet  there,  well  looked 
after,  and  would  be  able  to  settle  down  to  work 
again  in  one  of  the  prettiest  places  anybody  could 
wish  for." 

He  appeared  to  hesitate  a  moment. 

"  No,"  he  said,  replying  to  his  own  thoughts 
rather  than  to  my  proposition.  "  No,  decidedly, 
I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  company.  I  need  to 
feel  myself  wholly  independent.  There  are 
times  when  one  is  better  alone,  or  among 
strangers.  I  am  in  one  of  those  moods  now.  I 
hope  my  friends  will  excuse  me." 

On  arriving  at  Vichy  I  accompanied  him  to 
the  two  sources  of  which  he  was  taking  the  waters 
at  half-hour  intervals.  We  passed  the  half-hour 
meandering  mechanically  around  the  band  stand, 
amid  the  indolent  and  insipid  crowd  which  was 
being  bored  to  the  music  of  a  popular  operetta, 
the  favorite  airs  of  which  the  violins  were  saw- 
ing for  the  thirtieth  time. 

'*  You  cannot  imagine,"  remarked  Kermoysan, 


Il6  The  Saci'ifice  of  Silence. 

"  to  what  a  degree  that  music  annoys  me.  And 
still  I  come  to  listen  to  it  twice  a  day,  because  I 
have  to  be  somewhere.  Then  this  coming;  and 
going  wearies  one  a  little.  One  thinks  of  noth- 
ing, but  the  fifteen  hours  between  the  rising  and 
setting  of  the  sun  pass  all  the  same." 

As  soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  second  glass 
of  water  we  were  seated  at  a  table  in  the  inter- 
national club.  He  ate  sparingly,  and  made  re- 
marks that  varied  little  and  betrayed  a  state  of 
mind  that  was  singularly  highstrung,  almost 
alarming.  Never  had  he  shown  himself  so  un- 
restrained. He  evidently  thought  he  was  safe 
from  all  investigation  in  this  place  filled  with 
unknown  faces,  where  he  was  alone.  He  prob- 
ably said  to  himself; 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  they  do  notice  my 
trouble  ?     They  cannot  guess  the  cause  of  it !" 

He  spoke  to  relieve  himself.  He  complained 
of  a  thousand  insignificant  annoyances,  for  the 
sheer  pleasure  of  complaining,  like  a  man  whose 
very  sources  of  life  are  attacked,  and  who,  say- 
ing nothing  about  the  malady  itself  deplores  only 
its  faintest  symptoms.  Never  did  a  conversa- 
tion cause  me  a  more  painful  impression ;  at  times 
I  fancied  that  his  reason,  beaten  by  too  many 
storms  too  long  withstood,  was  giving  way. 

As  the  time  for  leaving  him  drew  near  I  asked 
him  what  his  plans  for  the  end  of  the  season 
were.     He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*'  I  have  not  got  any,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not 


A  History — Kcymoysan.  i  i  7 

got  any.  What  the  deuce  do  you  think  I  can 
make  plans  about  ?  When  I  have  finished  my 
cure,  if  I  do  finish  it,  I  shall  go  a-wandering 
again,  as  I  have  done  hitherto.  It  seems  to  me 
that  this  summer  will  never  end  !" 

At  the  station,  to  which  he  accompanied  me, 
he  made  this  last  recommendation : 

"  If  you  meet  any  of  our  friends  don't  tell 
them  that  I  am  here!" 

In  the  crowded  compartment  of  the  train 
which  bore  me  away  I  had  great  difficulty  in 
shaking  off  the  impression  which  his  trouble,  his 
agitation,  and  his  strange  remarks  had  caused 
me.  I  kept  repeating  to  myself  this  phrase 
which  I  could  not  get  out  of  my  head : 

"  Man  overboard !     Man  overboard !" 

And  I  pitied  him  with  all  my  useless  sympa- 
thy. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

That  year  I  did  not  return  to  Paris  till  to- 
wards the  end  of  November.     My  first  visit  was 

to  Mme.  B 's  where  I  was  sure  of  hearing 

all  the  news  about  our  mutual  friends.  She  in- 
formed me  that  Kermoysan  had  been  back  in 
town  for  several  weeks;  then  as  I  inquired  after 
Mme.  Herdevin  she  became  sad. 

"  The  poor  woman,"  she  said,  "is  threatened 
with  a  new  sorrow,  the  worst  of  all.  Her  little 
Martha  is  worse.  It  is  feared  that  the  end  is 
near — and  you  know  how  she  loves  her!" 

On    leaving  Mme.  B 's    I    happened  to 

run  across  Herdevin,  and  stopped  him  to  ask 
after  his  child. 

"  Still  in  the  same  condition,"  he  replied  with 
indifferent  shortness,  as  though  not  aware  how 
serious  that  condition  was. 

On  Mme.  Herdevin's  day  I  called  at  the  house, 
but  she  was  not  receiving:  Martha's  condition 
was  extremely  critical.  The  next  day  I  returned 
to  make  inquiries,  and  learned  that  the  child  had 
died  during  the  night. 

A  sort  of  instinct  impelled  me  to  call  on  Ker- 
moysan, whom  I  had  not  seen  for  a  day  or  two, 
not  having  found  him  in.  I  was  moved  witll 
[iiSj 


A  History — Kermoysan,  119 

that  emotion  at  once  egotistical  and  compassion- 
ate which  is  easily  aroused  at  contact  with  death, 
even  when  we  are  not  particularly  interested  in 
those  whom  it  strikes  under  our  eyes.  There- 
fore, before  touching  upon  any  current  question 
I  told  him  the  news  I  had  just  learned. 

"  I    heard    about    it    this    morning,"  he  said. 

He  paused;  then  seeing  that  I  was  waiting 
for  him  to  continue,  went  on  with  effort,  evi- 
dently not  saying  what  he  first  intended  to : 

"  She  was  a  delicious  child,  notwithstanding 
her  infirmities.  These  little  suffering  things, 
yoii  know,  sometimes  have  a  tenderness  and 
grace  that  touch  us  the  more  because  we  feel 
they  are  so  fragile!" 

I  knew  that  Mme.  Herdevin  allowed  few  per- 
sons to  approach  her  child,  end  Kermoysan's 
words  therefore  surprised  me. 

"  Did  you  then  see  her  often  ?"   T  asked. 

"  Occasionally,"  he  explained.  "  She  suddenly 
took  a  liking  to  me  one  day  when  I  arrived  be- 
fore the  usual  hour  and  they  kept  her  awhile  in 
the  drawing-loom.  She  wanted  to  see  me  again. 
She  used  to  call  me  the  young  gentleman  with 
the  white  hair!  I  was  greatly  touched  by  her 
sympathy,  I  assure  you.  Poor  little  tot.  I  shall 
miss  her." 

He  paused  again.  I,  ill  at  ease,  and  feeling  an 
inexpressible  sadness  in  the  air,  also  remained 


120  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

silent.  Presently  he  continued  in  a  deep  voice: 
"  What  a  loss  it  must  be  to  her  poor  mother. 
She  loved  her  so  passionately." 

I  glanced  at  him,  and  was  not  mistaken :  a  fur- 
tive tear  was  glistening  in  his  eye.  Strong  men 
sometimes  have  these  weaknesses:  they  can  re- 
sist suffering  better  than  pity. 

A  few  days  later  I  saw  Mme.  Herdevin.  She 
had  now  comprised  me  in  the  very  small  number 
of  intimate  friends  she  received,  whom  I  fancy 
she  had  chosen  among  those  she  deemed  capable 
of  really  sympathising  with  her  grief.  It  was  a  sad 
moment,  for  the  sight  of  a  deep  sorrow  evokes  the 
tristful  echoes  that  the  daily  course  of  life  sup- 
presses within  us,  the  sentiment  of  all  that  men- 
aces us,  the  intuition  or  the  terror  of  sufferings 
that  are  lying  in  wait  for  us.  I  had  never  seen  a 
more  sincere,  more  mortally  painful  expression 
of  grief.  In  these  few  days  she  had  grown  years 
older.  Wrinkles  had  suddenly  furrowed  her  fine 
brow  whose  purity  no  sorrow  had  previously 
been  able  to  mar;  her  complexion  had  become 
clouded  with  a  deep,  unhealthy  tone;  her  crystal- 
line voice,  that  had  been  so  full  of  charm,  had 
become  broken.  She  was  another  woman  alto- 
gether. And  yet  this  tragically  sorrowful  mask 
was  not  unfamiliar  to  me.  I  had  seen  it  before, 
in  other  circumstances.  When  ?  I  tried  to  re- 
member, and  all  at  once  I  recalled  that  it  was  a 
few  months  before,  at  the  time  of  the  false  rumor 


A  History — Kermoysan.  \i\ 

of  Kermoysan 's  death.  Only  then  she  controlled 
herse'f,  whereas  now,  there  being  no  reason  why 
she  should  hide  her  grief  as  a  mother,  she  gave 
free  vent  to  it,  imploring  with  her  eyes  a  sym- 
pathy that  she  knew  she  would  everywhere  re- 
ceive. She  was  stricken  to  the  heart,  but  it  was 
with  a  wound  that  she  could  show,  that  would 
not  be  envenomed  by  calumny. 

This  sudden  discovery,  corroborating  at  such 
a  moment   so  many  other  signs  previously  ob- 
served, troubled    me  to  such   a   degree   that    I 
could    hardly   stammer   the    few    conventional 
phrases  I  had  come  to  deliver  myself  of.     How 
feebly   they    expressed   my    compassion!     How 
they  rendered  in  insignificant  words  a  sentiment 
so  strong  that  it  was  choking  me  I     I  yearned  to 
tell  her  that  I  had  solved  all  the  mystery  of  her 
soul;  that  I  understood  her  two  loves,  to  one  of 
which  it  was  not  permitted  to  console  the  other 
that  was  bleeding;  that  I  pitied  her,  pitied  her  to 
the  point  of  feeling  the  very  strings  of  my  heart 
vibrate  with  sympathy,  pitied  her  so  that  I  suf- 
fered with  her  that  exquisite  pain  she  could  not 
avow.     Instead  of  this  I  had  perforce  to  content 
myself  with  the  utterance   of  those  immutable 
words  which  are  employed  on  all  such  occasions, 
like  the  palls  that  serve  at  all  fiinerals.     Yet  she 
must  have  felt  how  sincerely  I  shared  her  sorrow, 
for  she  talked  to  me  at  considerable  length  about 
the  little  one  that  had  been  taken  from  her,  told 


122  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

me  how  courageous  the  child  had  been  through 
all  her  suffering,  and  about  her  winning  ways 
and  touching  words,  in  a  weak,  colorless  voice 
that  seemed  to  pass  through  sobs. 

"  Poor,  poor  darling!"  she  said.  "  I  was  not 
able  to  shield  her  from  a  single  attack  of  pain, 
nor  could  I  give  her  any  of  the  pleasure  that 
other  children  enjoy  who  can  walk,  and  run,  and 
play.  How  she  ought  to  have  been  loved  to 
compensate  her!  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  love  her 
enough,  not  enough.  I  had  other  cares,  other 
thoughts.  When  she  used  to  ask, '  Mother,  what 
are  you  thinking  about  ?'  I  could  not  always 
answer,  '  Of  you,  darling !'  But  she  would  hold 
out  her  arms  to  me  all  the  same,  her  poor,  thin 
little  arms  that  I  shall  never  see  again,  and 
throwing  them  round  my  neck  would  say: 
'  Mamma,  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  love  me  more 
than  anything.'  Oh!  yes,  I  loved  her  more  than 
all  else;  oh!  yes,  I  know  it  now!" 

It  did  her  good  to  talk  like  that,  and  I  let  her 
go  on,  finding  no  words  with  which  to  interrupt 
her.  In  this  way  my  visit  lasted  longer  than  I 
thought  it  would.  When  I  rose  to  take  leave  of 
her,  Kermoysan  entered,  and  there  came  into 
Mme.  Herdevin's  eyes  a  gleam  of  relief,  like  a 
half  extinct  spark  of  life  lighting  up  again  for  an 
instant.  They  shook  hands  without  a  word.  I 
understood  that  this  silence  was  eloquent;  I 
understood  that  it  contained  all  suffering  and  all 


A  History — Kermoysan.  1 23 

consolation,  an  infinitiKle  of  sorrow  in  which 
mins^Ied  an  infinitude  of  love;  I  understood  that 
it  hid  one  of  those  mysteries  which  the  human 
eye  can  never  fathom,  for  alas !  who  can  measure 
tenderness  and  kindness  that  fault  obscures  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Life  goes  on,  bearing  away  our  sentiments, 
attenuating  our  impressions,  tolerant  to  those 
who  suffer,  indifferent  to  spectators.  For  that 
matter,  unless  we  are  viciously  inquisitive,  the 
affairs  of  other  people  do  not  interest  us  par- 
ticularly, and  we  pay  little  attention  to  them. 
Mme.  Herdevin  having  ceased  to  appear  in  so- 
ciety, was  soon  forgotten.  I  called  upon  her  from 
time  to  time,  out  of  fidelity;  but  I  was  forced  to 
admit  now  that  I  rarely  saw  her  and  she  was 
always  in  mourning,  that  she  was  not  so  interest- 
ing  to    me.       Sometimes    at  Mme.    B 's    or 

elsewhere  she  was  spoken  of  in  friendly  or  frivo- 
lous terms,  and  regret  at  her  retirement  or 
commiseration  for  her  were  expressed : 

"  Poor  woman !  When  will  she  ever  recover 
from  the  blow  ?" 

•'  Ah!  We  shall  never  see  her  again  as  she 
used  to  be." 

And  that  was  all. 

As  to  Kermoysan,  he  had  also  disappeared. 
Seized  with  one  of  his  fits  of  unsociability,  he 
had  shut  himself  up  in  his  entresol  in  the  Rue 
Oudinot. 

"  I  am  working,"  he  said,  in  explanation  of  his 
seclusion. 

[124] 


A  History — Ke^'moysart,  125 

This  explanation  was  acce;.ted;  there  was 
nothing:  extraordinary  about  it.  Nevertheless,  I 
could  not  help  but  remark  that  his  disappearance 
practically  coincided  with  the  death  of  little 
Martha,  that  had  deprived  us  of  Mme.  Herdevin. 
At  first  this  struck  me  as  being  a  fine  discovery, 
to  be  added  to  those  I  had  already  made.  Then, 
as  I  only  saw  the  hero  and  heroine  of  my  romance 
at  long  intervals  I  thought  little  more  about  them 
until  they  were  forced  upon  my  attention  again 
under  tragical  circumstances  which  raised  the 
last  corner  of  the  veil  of  mystery  which  still  en- 
veloped them. 

It  was  in  January,  w^hen  the  season  was  at  its 
height.  I  was  then,  like  everybody  else,  living 
only  that  empty  and  factitious  life  which  each 
night  recommences  its  monotonoi:s  round — din- 
ners, soirees,  calls,  weariness  of  the  same  talk, 
the  same  costumes,  the  same  menus,  fatigue 
from  staying  up  too  long  the  previous  night, 
disinclination  to  work. 

One  day  the  rumor  circulated  that  Mme. 
Herdevin  was  ill.  At  first  she  was  said  to  be 
suffering  from  a  slight  congestion  of  the  lungs, 
then  it  was  learned  that  she  had  become  worse, 
and  vSoon  it  was  said  that  little  hope  of  saving 
her  was  entertained.  The  very  day  these  re- 
ports began  to  get  alarming  I  encountered  Ker- 
moysan  at  a  select  little  soiree  to  which  Mme, 
B had  invited,  him  although  hardly  ex- 
pecting that  he  would  turn  up. 


126  TJic  Sacrifice,  of  Silence. 

"  So  yoii  have  issued  from  your  seclusion  ?"  I 
said  as  I  greeted  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  replied,  "it  could  not  last  for 
ever,  you  know." 

He  did  not  look  well.  His  face  was  drawn 
and  there  was  an  anxious  look  in  his  eyes. 

"You  look  tired,"  I  observed.  "You  have 
doubtless  been  working  too  hard." 

"  Working  too  hard  ?"  he  repeated.  "  Yes, 
perhaps  so.  And  then  it  isn't  good  to  isolate 
one's  self.  One  has  always  need  of  the  society 
of  others,  more  than  one  thinks — even  if  only  to 
avoid  one's  self  a  little." 

"  Have  you  entirely  renounced  the  savage 
state  ?" 

"  Entirely.  It  is  absurd  to  play  the  hermit. 
I  shall  begin  to  go  out  again,  as  I  used  to  do. 
My  book  will  be  finished  all  the  same,  if  it  ever 
is  to  be  finished,  which  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
about !" 

Thereafter  I  met  him  everywhere,  even  when 
making  afternoon  calls;  but  he  could  not  re- 
cover either  his  equilibrium  or  that  absolute  self- 
possession  for  which  I  had  admired  him  when  I 
first  made  his  acquaintance.  He  would  arrive 
with  anxious  mien,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is 
waiting  or  looking  for  something.  He  took  little 
part  in  the  conversation,  to  which  he  contributed 
only  in  a  nervous  or  absent-minded  manner,  now 
returning  a  wrong  answer  to  a  question  addressed 
to  him,  now  coming  out  with  a  long  tirade,  upon 


A  History — Kermoysan.  127 

which    the    discussion  turned  without    his  con- 
tinuing to  defend  his  point  of  view. 

"  M.  Kermoysan  has  become  very  sins^ular," 

remarked  Mme.  B to  me  one  day.    "  What 

has  come  over  him  ?     Do  you  know  ?" 

"  I  think  he  has  been  working  too  hard." 

My  old  friend  smiled. 

"  Working  too  hard !"  she  said.  "  That  is  a 
good  thing  for  you  literary  people.  It  stretches 
the  nerves  and  hides  everything!" 

It  always  happened  at  our  gatherings  that  some 
one  brought  Mme.  Herdevin's  name  upon  the 
tapis,  for  since  she  had  been  taken  ill  she  had 
been  remembered  again,  either  because  she 
furnished  a  subject  of  conversation,  or  out  of 
pure  kindness  and  sympathy.  Kermoysan  never 
spoke  of  her,  but  as  soon  as  he  heard  her  name 
mentioned  he  became  attentive,  and  if  he  was 
engaged  in  conversation  he  was  not  able  to  dis- 
guise the  fact  that  he  was  not  listening  to  what 
was  being  said  to  him.  The  news  however 
scarcely  varied:  the  sick  woman's  condition  be- 
came worse  every  day,  although  she  fought 
against  her  malady  with  all  the  strength  of  her 
will  and  years.  Apropos  to  this  a  medical  friend 
of  ours  explained  that  in  cases  of  inflammation 
and  congestion  of  the  lungs  one  ought  never  to 
despair;  and  that  in  the  course  of  his  career  he 
had  often  seen  sufferers  from  this  complaint 
recover  after  they  had  been  given  up  by  the 
doctors.     But  he  added: 


128  The  Sacrifice  of  Silejice. 

"  Unfortunately,  in  her  case,  the  disease  is  at- 
tacking a  temperament  exhausted  by  great  m.oral 
suffering,  by  her  inconsolable  grief  at  the  loss  of 
her  child,  and  it  therefore  has  the  best  possible 
ground  to  work  upon." 

None  the  less  everybody  was  inclined  to  be 
confident  as  to  the  outcome,  especially  as  there 
is  always  time  enough  to  wax  sad. 

This  lasted  about  a  week.  I  frequently  called 
at  her  house  for  news,  but  the  information  I 
obtained  from  the  servants  was  not  more  explicit 
than  that  which  was  circulated  in  society.  Then, 
one  day,  at  dinner,  somebody  asked  the  usual 
question : 

"  Is  there  any  news  of  poor  Mme.  Herdevin  ?" 

A  voice  responded: 

"  She  is  dead." 

Kermoysan  was  seated  opposite  to  me.  There 
was  such  a  gleam  in  his  eyes,  he  made  a  gesture 
of  such  terror  and  despair  that  I  shivered  to  the 
very  marrow.  He  controlled  himself,  however; 
the  cry  that  rose  to  his  lips  did  not  burst  forth, 
and  exerting  all  his  energy  in  a  supreme  effort, 
he  recovered  apparent  composure. 

The  servants  were  serving  the  fish,  and  all 
round  the  table  the  news  of  Mme.  Herdevin's 
death  had  caused  an  explosion  of  sympathy. 

"  She  is  dead !     Oh,  how  sorry  I  am." 

"  Poor  woman !     So  charming,  so  good !" 

"  Her  life  was  not  a  very  happy  one,  they 
say/* 


A  History— Kcrmoysan.  129 

"  Did  she  suffer  much  ?" 

These  phrases,  and  others  of  a  similar  nature, 
were  exchanged  over  the  orchids  that  decorated 
the  table,  to  the  cadence  of  the  discreet  noise  of 
the  forks.  The  person  who  had  brought  the 
news  was  asked  for  details.  She  had  not  many 
to  give.  All  she  knew  was  that  the  death 
struggle  had  been  a  long  one. 

"  Was  she  conscious  to  the  last  ?"  somebody 
asked. 

Kermoysan  who  had  appeared  to  be  absent- 
minded,  as  though  nothing  that  could  be  said 
could  interest  him  became  attentive.  The  per- 
son interrogated  replied : 

"  I  cannot  say.  I  know  nothing  more  than  I 
have  told  you/' 

Kermoysan 's  neighbor  leaned  towards  him  and 
said  0° 

"  You  knew  poor  Mme.  Herdevin  very  well, 
did  you  not  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  and  replied  with  a  little  hesi- 
tation I 

*'  Very  well  ?  No,  madame :  I  saw  her  occa- 
sionally " 

"  I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  her," 
she  went  on,  "  but  I  have  always  heard  her  well 
spoken  of„  She  was  a  very  charming  woman,  I 
understand." 

Kermoysan  was  livid. 

"  Yes,  charming,  altogether  charming,"  he 
stammered. 


130  The  Sacrifice  of  Silefice. 

I  felt  the  effort  these  banale  phrases  cost  him, 
and  saw  that  his  strength  was  giving  way.  For- 
tunately the  dialogue  was  interrupted.  Another 
dish  had  been  brought  in  and  wine  was  being 
served,  the  guests  being  asked  to  choose  between 
Pomard  and  Chateau- Laroze. 

It  was  a  lucky  diversion.  The  conversation 
about  Mme.  Herdevin  dropped,  to  the  great  sat- 
isfaction of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  was 
beginning  to  fear  that  her  dinner  party  would 
be  a  gloomy  one.  Various  subjects  were  taken 
up  in  turn  and  soon  the  bon  mots  of  some  of 
wits  provoked  hilarity. 

Kermoysan  conducted  himself  very  well.  He 
was  grave,  no  doubt ;  but  his  impassive  face  be- 
trayed no  emotion.  He  spoke  little,  it  is  true, 
but  this  caused  nosuprise,  for  he  was  known  to 
be  somewhat  capricious.  He  managed  to  de- 
liver himself  of  a  few  phrases  about  something 
or  other,  however,  and  thus  was  almost  as  atten- 
tive to  his  neighbor  as  politeness  demanded.  I 
was,  I  think,  the  only  person  who  noticed  that 
he  did  not  eat.  He  made  two  or  three  attempts 
but  the  effort  was  too  great,  he  could  not  do  it. 
On  the  other  hand  he  emptied  his  glasses  as 
quickly  as  the  servants  filled  them. 

In  the  smoking  room  I  went  up  to  him  intend- 
ing on  no  matter  what  pretext,  to  say  something 
affectionate  to  him,  but  I  could  not  find  the 
words  I  wanted  to  say.  Besides,  he  looked  at 
me    almqst   supplicatingly,    with    a    look    that 


A  History — Kem7toysan,  1 3 1 

seemed  to  say:  "  Don't  speak  to  me  about  it, 
don't,  I  entreat  you."  I  therefore  merely  handed 
to  him  the  pink  candle  with  which  I  had  just 
lighted  my  cigar.  He  lit  his  with  it  and  began 
to  smoke  mechanically,  with  rapid  puffs.  In 
spite  of  his  silence  I  remained  by  him  to  defend 
him  from  the  conversation  of  the  others,  who 
were  very  gay. 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  There 
was  a  reception  there,  and  new  guests  were  ar- 
riving. Kermoysan  had  to  shake  hands  with 
some  of  them.  At  one  moment  he  was  button- 
holed by  a  stout  lady  who  gesticulated  with  her 
fan.  Then  he  retreated  into  a  comer.  The 
room  became  more  crowded,  and  I  saw  that  he 
was  preparing  to  slip  away.  Without  more  re- 
flection I  decided  to  follow  him. 

Being  so  early  in  the  evening  it  did  not  enter 
his  mind  that  anybody  would  leave  at  the  same 
time.  He  called  for  his  overcoat,  got  into  it  rap- 
idly and  went  out  without  noticing  that  I  was 
following.  We  w^ere  in  the  Rue  Jean  Goujon. 
He  passed  behind  the  line  of  carriages  at  the 
edge  of  the  pavement  and  went  off  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  the  quays.  From  the  distance 
at  which  I  kept  behind  him  I  could  see  him 
gesticulating  in  the  night.  Sometimes  he  would 
stop,  like  a  man  pursued  by  a  tenacious  thought 
that  little  by  little  bore  him  out  of  the  external 
world  and  made  him  forget  it.  Then  he  would 
go  on  again  zigzagging  from  one  pavement  to  the 


132  The  Sacrifice  of  Sileiuc. 

other  with  the  manner  of  a  drunken  man.  Who 
has  not  met  such  odd  passers-by  in  the  street, 
smiled  at  their  manner  and  followed  them  with 
curious  eye  ?  Sometimes  Kermoysan  stood  still, 
I  think  for  several  minutes.  I  was  compelled  to 
stop,  too,  and  having  time  to  reflect,  felt  a  little 
ashamed  of  the  sort  of  spying  I  was  engaged  in. 
To  conciliate  my  conscience  I  argued  that  it  was 
my  duty  to  follow  him  in  this  way  to  protect 
him,  or  to  save  him  from  himself  if,  as  I  feared, 
he  took  some  extreme  course. 

The  streets,  through  which  the  winter  wind 
swept  icily,  were  almost  deserted.  It  was  only 
at  long  intervals  that  we  met  anybody,  and  they, 
their  faces  buried  in  their  coat  collars  and  blow- 
ing upon  their  fingers,  took  no  notice  of  us. 

On  reaching  the  Seine  Kermoysan  leaned  his 
elbow  on  the  parapet  and  bent  over.  Then  I 
was  indeed  filled  with  anxiety.  Evidently  he 
was  thinking  of  death.  Death  was  beckoning 
to  him,  the  dark  waters  were  singing  to  him  with 
the  alluring  voices  of  sirens.  He  was  dreaming 
of  the  delight  of  being  delivered  from  the  grief 
which  was  racking  his  heart,  of  being  borne  by 
the  waves  yonder  into  the  unknown,  into  the 
mysterious  regions  where  SJie  was  wandering — 
waiting  for  him,  perhaps!  What  was  there  to 
hold  him  back,  what  could  prevent  him  from 
plunging  into  that  oblivion  from  which  a  httle 
gray  wall  alone  separated  him  ?  I  waited,  hid- 
den behind  a  tree,  ready  to  rush  to  the  rescue, 


A  Hisiory — Kennoysan.  133 

impelled  by  the  force  of  social  prejudice,  al- 
though a  secret  voice  whispered:  "Let  him 
alone;  if  he  wants  to  die  he  is  free  to  do  so." 
And  I  did  not  feel  the  cold,  the  bitter  wintry 
wind  that  soughed  through  the  bare  branches  of 
the  trees  and  made  the  reflections  of  the  lamps 
on  the  quays  dance  on  the  bosom  of  the  tide. 

Suddenly  Kermoysan  drew  himself  up,  and  a 
thrill  passed  through  me. 

"  Now  is  the  time,"  I  thought,  as  I  moved 
from  behind  the  tree. 

I  was  mistaken,  however,  for  he  walked  away 
from  the  parapet.  Mechanically  he  pulled  his 
hat  over  his  eyes  and  continued  on  his  way  to- 
wards the  Pont  de  I'Alma.  He  walked  now  with 
steady  step  and  without  stopping,  having  an  end 
in  view.  I  guessed  that  he  wanted  to  see  the 
hot:se  where  she  was  lying. 

It  was  a  mansion  of  ornamental  architecture 
separated  from  the  Avenue  du  Trocadero,  on 
which  it  faced,  by  a  large  wrought  iron  gate 
surmounted  by  a  gilded  number.  Kermoysan 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  avenue  oppo- 
site the  gate.  He  leaned  against  a  tree  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  closed  shutters  of  the  silent 
apartment.  Snow  had  begun  to  fall,  a  heavy 
snow  whose  big  flakes  streaking  the  obscurity  of 
the  night  whitened  him  little  by  little;  but  he  did 
not  feel  them  or  attempt  to  shake  them  off.  It 
•was  another  form  of  death  that  presented  itself, 


1 34  The  Saci'ifice  of  Silence. 

still  more  attractive,  the  kindly  pall  prepared  by 
nature,  the  velvet  carpet,  fallen  piece  by  piece 
from  the  sky  inviting  to  unconsciousness.  But 
that  was  the  idea  of  a  calm-minded  man,  and  I 
am  sure  never  occurred  to  Kermoysan,  When 
one  really  suffers  death  appears  as  deliverance, 
not  voluptuousness. 

He  grew  tired  of  standing  still,  however,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
house,  sometimes  with  rapid  strides,  sometimes 
more  slowly.  Now  and  then  he  stopped,  raised 
his  eyes  to  a  window  on  the  second  floor  where 
a  gleam  of  light  fitered  through  the  shutters,  the 
room  no  doubt  where  they  v/ere  keeping  watch 
beside  the  body,  and  wrung  his  hands.  And  sud- 
denly, I  was  struck  with  the  frightful  thought 
that  he  would  not  have  the  supreme  consolation 
of  seeing  her  again ;  that  the  terrible  tiever  had 
seized  upon  him  in  all  its  horror  at  a  moment 
when,  although  it  was  materially  possible  to 
do  so,  he  could  not  look  upon  her  lying  there 
amid  the  flowers,  and  kiss  her  rigid  hands;  that 
the  last  eyes  to  gaze  upon  her  would  not  be  those 
that  had  adored  her,  those  that  her  lips  had 
kissed,  perhaps,  those  that  were  filled  with  her 
image,  those  that  had  not  even  the  right  to  weep. 
And  I  f3lt  a  thrill  of  hatred  towards  our  laws, 
towards  our  customs,  which  proclaim  duty  more 
sacred  than  love.  The  minutes  passed  slowly- 
the  snow  also  fell  less  fast. 


A  History — Kermoysan.  135 

"  Is  he  going  to  stay  there  all  night  ?"  I  won- 
dered. 

He  had  obviously  ceased  to  take  count  of  time  : 
he  must  have  been  conscious  of  nothing  but  his 
grief.  At  length,  however,  instead  of  turning 
back  he  walked  straight  on  at  a  rapid  pace. 
Without  looking  at  the  river  he  followed  the 
quays  to  the  Pont  des  Invalides,  crossed  it,  wan- 
dered through  long  dark  avenues  in  which  I 
nearly  lost  sight  of  him,  and  finally  reached  the 
Rue  Oudinot.  He  walked  so  quickly  that  I  had 
difficulty  in  following  him.  On  arriving  at  his 
door  he  took  his  key  from  his  pocket,  but  instead 
of  letting  himself  in,  he  made  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair and  resumed  his  indefatigable  walk.  A  new 
anxiety  seized  me.  Tired  as  I  was  I  could  not 
possibly  leave  him.  It  was  no  longer  curiosity 
that  actuated  me,  for  I  knew  all  that  I  wanted  to 
know;  it  was  pure  pity,  the  feeling  that  in  his 
mental  grief  the  poor  unhappy,  abandoned  man 
had  at  least  one  sympathetic  soul  near  him 
whose  compassion  would  do  him  good  perhaps, 
even  if  he  knew  nothing  of  it. 

"  Heavens  !  where  is  he  going,  what  is  he  go- 
ing to  do  ?"  I  asked  myself.  "  Has  he  returned 
to  that  idea  of  death  that  he  dismissed  once,  but 
which  certainly  is  lingering  in  his  mind  ?" 

This  time  the  streets  were  utterly  deserted, 
and  there  were  no  lights  in  anv  of  the  houses,  I 
felt  very  much  alone  with  this  desperate  man 


136  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

who,  the  snow  deadening  his  footsteps,  glided  like 
a  phantom  through  the  darkness  and  silence. 

He  did  not  go  far. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Vaneaii  an  uninvit- 
ing wine  shop  was  open,  although  there  was  not 
a  single  customer  in  front  of  the  zinc  counter. 
Kermoysan  entered.  An  instant  afterwards,  on 
passing  by  the  dirty  windows,  I  saw  that  he  was 
seated  at  a  little  round  table  with  a  decanter  of 
liquor  before  him.  I  passed  by  a  second  time. 
He  was  no  longer  drinking,  but  his  face  was 
buried  in  his  hands  and  he  was  sobbing.  It  was 
strange  and  striking,  I  assure  you,  this  grief 
which  had  come  to  break  down  in  this  hole, 
where  nothing  about  it  would  ever  be  known. 

I  watched  him  for  a  while  through  the  window. 
The  wine  shop  keeper  behind  his  counter  also 
looked  at  him,  stupefied;  then  tip-toed  to  the 
end  of  the  shop  and  disappeared  through  a  door, 
leaving  him  alone.  The  man's  delicacy  touched 
me.  I  concluded  that  Kermoysan's  sobs  marked 
the  end  of  the  acute  crisis,  and  went  away. 

A  thousand  confused  thoxights  agitated  my 
mind;  a  thousand  questions  presented  them- 
selves that  my  imagination  could  alone  answer. 
On  reaching  home  T  builded  a  whole  romance. 
But  I  realized  how  fragile  it  was.  One  thing 
alone  was  certain.  Kermoysan  was  keeping  his 
secret  to  the  end,  beyond  the  tomb.  What  there 
was  between  them  none  would  ever  know.     It 


A  History — Kemnoysan.  137 

was  now  the  past,  which  no  longer  existed  save 
in  one  memory  with  which  it  would  finally  be  ex- 
tinguished, of  which  I  had  caught  a  few  sparks, 
that  are  extinct  to-day,  and  the  cinders  of  which 
I  had  no  right  to  stir. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

The  next  day  a  vague  uneasiness  prompted 
me  to  call  at  Kermoysan's  house  to  inquire  after 
him.  I  did  not  expect  he  would  receive  me,  and 
was  therefore  not  surprised  when  his  man  re- 
plied : 

"  Monsieur  has  gone  out." 

But  honest  Adolphe  did  not  know  how  to  lie 
to  those  he  knew:  he  was  so  embarrassed  that 
no  doubt  could  be  left  in  my  mind,  and  I  went 
away  reassured.  After  the  effort  of  the  previous 
day,  which  he  would  have  to  make  again,  it  was 
only  natural  that  Kermoysan  should  shut  him- 
self up  with  his  grief.  And  I  could  imagine  the 
grim  hours  the  unhappy  man  was  passing  with 
his  regrets,  his  heart  rent  by  one  of  those  sor- 
rows that  no  consoling  thought  can  lull,  that  no 
friend  can  share,  I  could  see  him  pacing  his 
study  with  that  movement  of  a  chained  wild  beast 
one  makes  instinctively  when  suffering,  wanting 
to  go  out  and  seek  the  intoxication  of  walking 
and  of  the  streets,  but  afraid  to,  lest  his  secret 
should  be  read  in  his  face — a  wounded  and  hunted 
animal  which,  not  being  able  to  drag  itself  to  the 
stream,  crawls  into  its  den  to  lick  its  wounds. 

In  the  evening,  however,  I  met  him  in  society 
impassible,  correct,  irreproachable.      In  a  calm 
[138J 


A  History — Kermoysan.         139 

voice  he  expressed  his  regret  at  not  being  home 
in  the  morning  when  I  had  called,  only  showing  a 
little  too  much  insistence  in  explaining  where  he 
had  gone.  He  conversed  with  several  other  per- 
sons on  different  subjects,  and  defended  with 
animation  M.  Alexandre  Dumas's  latest  piece, 
Frandllon,  which  was  being  criticised.  As  on 
the  previous  day  someone  spoke  to  him  about 
Mme.  Herdevin,  and  asked  him  once  more: 

"  You  knew  her  very  well,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Very  well  ?  No,"  he  immediately  replied.  "  I 
saw  her  occasionally  with  great  pleasure." 

He  spoke  without  a  twitch  in  his  face  or  a 
quiver  in  his  voice. 

"  Those  w^ho  knew  her,"  he  added,  "  all  re- 
gretted that  she  did  not  receive  more  frequently; 
therefore,  although  she  rarely  went  out,  she  will 
be  greatly  missed." 

Then  with  perfect  ease  he  changed  the  conver- 
sation. 

It  was  at  the  time  when  Rollinat  recited  his 
verses  in  every  drawing  room.  That  night  he 
was  in  particularly  lugubrious  mood,  for  he  re- 
cited the  most  mournful  poems  in  his  repertory. 
First  of  all  it  was  "  Tears:" 

When  wrecked  by  sad  inquietude, 

We  trace  griefs  pathways,  lone  and  sear. 

Or  seek  the  depths  of  solitude 
Yet  find  not  one  ecstatic  tear — 


140  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

We  envy  mothers  all  their  woe, 

Which  has  the  power  10  weep  alway, 

Whose  bitter  tears  in  torrents  flow, 
And  death  alone  has  power  to  stay. 

Then  came  a  sonnet  entitled  "  The  Silence  of 
the  Dead,"  for  which  the  gloomy  face  of  the 
poet  became  sombre  and  tragical: 

We  scan  their  portraits,  hoping  still  to  hear 
One  cry  to  break  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

Finally,  the  audience  having  been  suSiciently 
prepared,  his  voice  became  cavernous,  his  eyes 
rolled  with  terror,  and  he  recited  "  Putrefac- 
tion:" 

What  passes  in  this  frame  of  clay, 

Which  the  earth's  sweat  and  ooze  shall  lave  ? 
What  passes  in  it — who  shall  say — 

After  a  half  year  in  the  grave  ? 

Men  assumed  the  air  of  free  thinkers;  the 
women  made  grimaces  of  disgust.  Kermoysan, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  seemed  to  listen  ^vith  pro- 
found attention.  But  as  I  passed  him  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  recitation,  he  said  with  a  shud- 
der: 

"  It  is  horrible!" 

Then,  checking  himself,  at  once  added : 

"  What  bad  poetry!" 

He  did  not  leave  until  a  late  hour. 

His  attitude  had  been  so  natural,  so  perfect, 


A  History — Kcrmoysan.  14 1 

that  for  a  moment  I  asked  myself  whether  I  had 
not  dreamed  about  the  incidents  of  the  previous 
evening.  Then  I  understood  that  he  was  guard- 
ing his  secret  with  that  excessive  precaution 
which  delicate  consciences  adopt  that  are  fear- 
ful to  the  point  of  seeing  the  eyes  of  judges 
everywhere  around  them,  with  a  fear  that  para- 
lyzes them  even  in  their  most  insignificant 
acts.  Poor  man !  He  did  not  even  dare  to  shut 
himself  up  in  his  solitude  lest  his  isolation  at 
that  particular  time  should  be  remarked;  and 
although  his  heart  bled  he  exhibited  himself  with 
dry  eyes  and  serene  brow  so  that  none  might  be 
prompted  to  ask: 

*'  What  has  become  of  Kermoysan  ?  Why  is 
he  not  here  ?" 

Naturally  I  attended  Mme.  Herdevin's  funeral. 
The  service  was  held  at  the  Madeleine  with 
great  pomp,  as  befitted  a  wealthy  person  who 
was  bound  to  keep  up  appearances  to  the  very 
threshold  of  eternity.  There  were  a  great  many 
people  there,  as  is  always  the  case  at  these  cere- 
monies when  there  is  any  show  about  them — 
relatives,  friends,  the  indifferent,  the  curious,  all 
wnth  the  mournful  mien  suitable  to  the  occasion 
and  copied  from  that  of  the  mutes.  This  crowd 
assumed  an  indescribable,  uniform  tint :  faces 
resembled  each  other  as  much  as  the  costumes 
did,  so  that  I  had  some  difficulty  in  discovering 
Kermoysan.  I  perceived  him  at  last,  standing 
a  little  to  one  side,  and  half  hidden  by  a  pillar 


142  The  Sacrifice  of  Sile7ics. 

against  which  he  was  leaning  in  an  attitude  sim- 
ilar to  that  in  which   I  had  seen  him  two  days 
before,  in  the  snow  in  the  Avenue  du  Trocadero. 
All  through  the  service  he  did  not  move,  indif- 
ferent to  the  prayers  that  the  assembly  listened 
to  on  their  knees,  his  eyes  gazing  into  space,  his 
soul  elsewhere.     Yet  beside  the  coffin,  which  he 
could  not  approach  except  for  an  instant  at  the 
conclusion  of  the   ceremony,  to  which  his  sole 
farewell  would  be  the  sprinkling  of  a  little  holy 
water,  beside  this  coffin  in  which  slept  the  beau- 
tiful one    he  had   not   been  able  to  see  again, 
stood  the  fat  Herdevin,  with  an  air  of  import- 
ance, very  red,  blowing  hard,  holding  in  his  hand 
a  handkerchief  that  he  never  thought  of  using, 
probably  more  bored  than  afflicted,  and— who 
knows  ? — well  satisfied,  perhaps,  at  an  accident 
that  had  given  him  his  coveted  liberty. 

Again  was  I  assailed  with  the  subversive 
ideas  that  had  haunted  me  for  two  days. 
Really,  how  could  anyone  at  an  age  when  one  is 
still  susceptible  of  romantic  exaltation  witness 
such  a  spectacle  without  cursing  the  hypocrisy 
of  our  institutions,  the  eternal  deceit  with  which 
they  are  enveloped,  the  obstacles  which  they 
have  placed  in  the  way  of  freedom  of  hearts 
to  the  profit  of  egoism  and  dryness  of  soul  ? 
Later  in  life  one  reasons  otherwise;  in  those 
days  such  were  my  feelings.  It  was  for  this 
reason  perhaps  that  the  events  I  observed  im- 
pressed me  so  strongly. 


A  History — Kermoysan,  143 

When  we  filed  past  the  bier  I  preceded 
Kermoysan.  It  was  I  therefore  who  handed 
him  the  aspergium.  When  he  took  it  from  my 
hand  I  for  the  second  time  remarked  that  look 
of  despair  in  his  eyes  that  escaped  him  like  a 
cry,  and  which  alone  betrayed  him.  He  sup- 
pressed it  as  one  suppresses  a  sob.  But  I  heard 
it,  so  to  speak,  resounding  among  the  arches  and 
filling  them.  Then  the  organs  pealed,  drowning 
the  mute,  lost  cry  in  their  deep  harmonies. 
The  undertaker's  men  lowered  the  pall  again 
and  bore  out  the  flower-covered  coffin  with 
heavy  tread  that  sounded  on  the  flagstones, 
while  the  cortege  formed  and  fell  in  behind 
them. 

I  stayed  beside  Kermoysan.  He  left  the 
church  without  exerting  any  will  of  his  own, 
borne  out  with  the  crowd,  and  stopped  on  one 
of  the  steps,  his  eye  fixed  on  the  beplumed 
hearse  which  soon  started,  causing  the  cabs  to 
slacken  speed,  wresting  a  salute  from  the 
passer-by,  and  then  was  lost  to  sight  in  the 
calmness  of  the  boulevards,  among  the  omni- 
buses. 

Kermoysan  at  last  noticed  that  I  was  stand- 
ing beside  him.  He  looked  at  me,  moved  his 
lips  although  no  sound  came  through  them,  but 
managed  at  last  to  exclaim  in  a  raucous  voice : 

"  A  funeral  is  always  a  sad  business." 

I  responded  with  a  vague  gesture  and  went 
away  to  spare  him  a  fresh   effort.     He  walked 


144  ^■^^^  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

a  few  steps  in  the  direction  the  cortege  had 
gone,  then  stopped,  turned  back,  and  started  off 
in  the  opposite  direction,  so  quickly  that  he 
seemed  to  be  fleeing,  fleeing  from  an  enemy 
invisible  to  others,  by  whom  he  felt  that  he  was 
being  pursued. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  following  days  I  scarcely  went  anywhere 
without  encountering  Kermoysan.  One  would 
have  thought  he  was  applying  himself  conscien- 
tiously to  catching  up  with  visits  long  in  arrears, 
or  that  a  sort  of  society  fever  was  driving  him 
from  drawing-room  to  drawing-room.  At  all 
events  never  did  a  man  of  leisure  perform  his 
social  duties  with  more  exactitude.  It  even 
seemed  to  me  that  he  passed  all  bounds,  that  in 
seeking  so  strenuously  to  avert  suspicion  he 
risked  provoking  it.  However,  it  would  have 
excited  nothing  but  exceedingly  vague  suspi- 
cions. Think  what  an  effort  of  reasoning  it 
would  have  necessitated  on  the  part  of  persons 
whose  attention  thereto  had  not  been  previously 
attracted,  to  have  connected  Kermoysan's  visit- 
ing with  the  death  of  Mme.  Herdevin!  Society 
people,  when  they  give  themselves  the  trouble, 
know  how  to  observe;  but  their  discernment 
does  not  attain  to  the  point  of  divination.  His 
manner  struck  some  of  his  acquaintances;  the 
change  in  his  habits  occasioned  some  surprise; 
his  more  frequent  distractions,  his  sudden  lapses 
into  melancholy,  the  wrinkles  with  which  an 
ever-present  thought  lined  his  forehead  and 
furrowed  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  which 

[M5J 


146  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

gradually  changed  the  formerly  serene  expres- 
sion of  his  visage  into  one  of  worry,  were  re- 
marked. That  was  all.  I  participated  in  several 
conversations  of  which  he  was  the  subject :  not 
once  did  any  of  the  opinions  about  him  come 
anywhere  near  being  correct. 

"  Haven't  you  noticed,"  said  somebody,  "  that 
Kermoysan  isn't  what  he  used  to  be  ?  He  has 
aged  considerably  of  late;  he  is  becoming 
wrinkled  and  absent-minded.  What  can  be  the 
matter  with  him  ?" 

A  voice  replied: 

"  They  say  he  has  been  working  very  hard." 

"  But,"  objected  another,  "  he  doesn't  publish 
anything  now^" 

If  there  happened  to  be  any  spiteful  person 
in  the  company  one  would  hear: 

"  That  is. perhaps  what  is  worrying  him.  He 
feels  that  he  is  used  up,  and  the  knowledge 
W'Cighs  upon  his  mind.  Nothing  sours  a  man  so 
much  as  the  disappointments  of  a  literary  life." 

It  goes  without  saying  that  more  than  once 
it  was  insinuated  that  there  was  a  woman  in 
the  case.  But  nobody  knew  anything  about  it, 
and  none  suspected  that  that  woman  was  dead, 
and  that  he  was  mourning  for  her.  I  expe- 
rienced, I  must  confess,  a  certain  satisfaction, 
not  unmixed  with  pride,  at  the  fact  that  I  knew 
more  than  everybody  else;  I  rejoiced,  too,  to  see 
that  his  heroism  was  not  in  vain,  and  that  he 
managed  to  preserve  his  secret. 


A  History — Kermoysan.  147 

This  state  of  things  lasted  two  or  three  weeks. 
The  remembrance  of  Mme.  Herdevin  was  being 
effaced  more  and  more  every  day.  Already 
society  had  ceased  to  talk  about  her,  and  when 
by  chance  her  name  cropped  up  in  the  course 
of  conversation  it  seemed  to  belong  to  the  long 
ago.  Even  those  who  had  appreciated  her  grace 
and  charm  and  beauty  had  forgotten  her:  these 
qualities  pertained  to  the  past,  to  things  dead 
which  by  right  were  claimed  by  oblivion.  The 
cynical  unscrupulousness  with  which  Herdevin 
showed  his  mistress  in  public  places,  however, 
could  not  fail  to  be  remarked.  But  Herdevin 
had  never  frequented  the  same  set  as  his  wife, 
which  therefore  did  not  occupy  itself  much  with 
him.  It  was  merely  observed  that  he  would 
wed  "  that  creature  "  in  a  week  or  two,  and  noth- 
ing more  about  him  was  said. 

Kermoysan,  however,  was  going  into  retire- 
ment again,  and  was  managing  his  transitions 
with  a  good  deal  of  art.  He  began  by  paying 
fewer  visits,  remained  only  a  few  minutes  in  the 
salons  where  he  still  put  in  an  appearance,  de- 
clined invitations,  and  allowed  the  report  to  get 
about  that  he  was  at  last  going  to  publish  a 
new  book. 

When  he  was  questioned  about  this  he  would 
neither  confirm  nor  deny  it. 

"  You  will  see  that  he  won't  do  an57thing  of  the 
kind,"  said  the  spitefully  inclined.  "  There  is 
too  much  mystery  about  it." 


148  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

A  new  book!  Indeed,  no.  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  was  thinking  about.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  only  visit  that  I  paid  him  at  that  time.  I 
found  him  in  his  disordered  study,  doing  nothing, 
A  number  of  volumes  that  he  had  no  doubt  been 
trying  to  read  were  jumbled  pell-mell  on  the 
divan,  on  the  easy  chairs,  on  the  tables — poets, 
prose- writers,  even  pious  books.  The  room  had 
an  indescribable  air  of  abandonment  and  desola- 
tion. On  approaching  the  large  work-table 
encumbered  with  papers,  uncut  periodicals,  and 
unopened  letters  I  noticed  that  the  ink  had  dried 
in  the  crystal  inkstand.  A  gesture  of  surprise 
escaped  me  in  spite  of  myself.  Kermoysan, 
standing  beside  me,  noticed  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  the  ink  has  dried  up.  The 
heat  of  the  coke,  you  know.  Besides,  I  am  not 
working  just  now.  Don't  feel  up  to  it.  Haven't 
any  ideas." 

Affecting  a  careless  tone  he  continued: 

*'  One  experiences  such  moments,  you  know 
yourself.  They  are  common  to  me.  Only  this 
time,  my  lazy  spell  is  lasting  longer  than  usual. 
It's  a  beastly  nuisance.  I  can't  get  on  with  my 
book,  and  it's  going  to  be  a  good  one." 

And  with  a  great  effort  he  began  to  talk  to 
me  about  the  book,  although  his  thoughts  were 
not  upon  it. 

"  I  did  more  work  when  I  was  a  sailor,"  he 
•yvent   on.     "  I  miss   my   voyages.     To   change 


A  History — Kcnnoysan.  149 

from  place  to  place,  to  move  about,  to  be  stirring, 
there's  nothing  like  it,  believe  me," 

He  had  made  me  sit  down,  although  he  did 
not  sit  himself,  and  while  talking  to  me  he  paced 
up  and  down  with  that  manner  of  a  caged  will 
animal  that  I  knew  so  well,  and  that  internal 
agitation  that  impels  to  movement. 

When  I  left,  Adolphe  showed  me  out.  I  was 
almost  as  much  struck  by  him  as  by  his  master, 
whose  dispositions  he  always  reflected  a  little. 
He  was  unshaven,  his  apron  was  dirty,  and  he 
was  visibly  letting  things  go  their  own  way. 

"  I  am  afraid  Monsieur  is  not  very  well  just 
now,"  I  remarked. 

The  honest  fellow  shook  his  head,  rolled  his 
eyes,  and  began: 

"  Ah !  Monsieur " 

But  he  stopped  short  discreetly. 

I  did  not  return  to  the  Rue  Oudinot  for  fear 
of  disturbing  this  grief  to  which  solitude  was  so 
favorable.  There  are  sorrows  that  cannot  be 
consoled,  save  by  time,  and  time  is  long  to  the 
suffering.  To  me,  who  was  not  suffering,  it 
passed  quickly  enough.  Perhaps  I  had  forgotten 
Kermoysan  a  little.  I  however  thought  about 
him  sometimes.  I  imagined  that  he  had  retired 
from  the  world,  was  immured, so  to  speak,  in  his 
garfon7iih-e,  separated  from  the  world  by  an  in- 
visible barrier,  by  the  insurmountable  wall  of 
his  regrets,  when  a  rumor  was  circulated  that  he 
was  going  to  the  Soudan. 


150  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

It  was  true. 

"  But  what  did  he  want  to  leave  the  service 
for,  if  he  cannot  keep  still  ?"  his  friends  de- 
manded. 

And  his  inconsequent  action  was  adversely 
commented  upon. 

A  few  days  before  his  departure  Kermoysan 
came  to  bid  me  fare\Yell.  He  was  greatly 
changed.  He  had  grown  thin,  and  weaker. 
There  was  an  air  of  sadder  distraction  about 
him.  The  look  in  his  eyes  was  farther  away  than 
ever.  In  all  his  movements  and  gestures  was 
that  continual  and  threatening  uneasiness  that  I 
had  noticed  when  I  last  visited  him.  I  can  see 
him  still  as  he  sat  in  my  only  easy  chair,  his 
mobile  eyes  wandering  upon  all  the  objects  in  the 
room  as  though  he  were  making  an  inventory 
of  them, while  he  moved  his  feet  about  restlessly 
and  crossed  his  hands  incessantly. 

We  were  both  somewhat  embarrassed,  having 
thoughts  which  we  could  not  or  would  not 
express.  For  my  part  I  heard  other  words  than 
those  he  uttered  in  an  indifferent  voice.  I 
asked  him  a  few  questions  about  the  object  and 
equipment  of  the  expedition  to  which  he  had 
had  himself  attached.  Queer  sounding  names 
fell  from  his  lips — Ouargla,  Chambaa,  Tidikelt. 
One  might  have  thought  from  his  manner  that 
he  did  not  hear  them.  He  told  me  briefly  about 
some  of  the  heroic  but  vain  attempts  made  to 


A  History — Kennoysan.  151 

penetrate  the  unexplored  regions  to  which  he 
was  bound. 

"  It  is  a  task  of  wild  temerity  that  you  have 
undertaken,"  I  observed. 

"  Wild  ?  No,"  he  replied.  "  It  may  be  a  bold 
one,  but  not  more  so  than  many  others  which 
have  been  successfully  accomplished.  Besides, 
why  should  I  hesitate  ?  I  have  no  family,  I  am 
not  bound  to  anyone,  I  am  utterly  alone  in  the 
world,  absolutely  independent.  What  does  it 
matter,  then,  if  I  do  leave  my  skin  there  ?" 

"  What  about  your  friends,  and  your  literary 
career  ?" 

He  smiled. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said  gently,  "  have  other 
friends.  As  to  literature,  I  fancy  it  will  get  on 
very  well  without  me.  I  have  not  even  thought 
about  it.  Besides,  I  am  no  longer  doing  any- 
thing; lam  not  writing  anymore;  it  does  not 
afford  enough  distraction.  Action,  action,  move- 
ment, danger — that  is  what  I  need!" 

His  eyes  brightened : 

"  Danger!"  he  repeated.  "  That  spells  pleas- 
ure— the  last  that  gives  a  little  value  to  life. 
One  clings  to  life  when  one  is  on  the  point  of 
losing  it.  .  .  .  And  then,  what  will  you  ?     I  need 

to  be  up  and  doing If    I  return  I 

shall  at  least  have  done  something.     If  I  do  not 

return Why  should  one  not    sleep  as 

well  beneath  the  sands  of  Africa  as  under  our 
dark  earth  ?" 


152  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

He  rose  with  these  words  and  held  out  his 
hand.      I  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  said,  emphasizing  my  words, 
"  I  am  afraid  you  won't  come  back." 

Embarrassed  by  my  look  he  turned  away  his 
eyes. 

"  One  cannot  tell,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  May- 
be I  shall,  maybe  I  shall  not For  my 

part  I  fancy  I  shall  return.  You  see  my  soul  is 
rivetted  to  my  body;  it  will  leave  it  only  when 
it  cannot  help  itself." 

Then,  seeing  that  I  was  upset,  he  imparted 
an  unexpected  cordiality  to  his  hand  clasp.  His 
last  words,  which  I  shall  never  forget,  were 
these : 

"  Adieu I  wish  you  the  best   of  luck 

through  life!" 

Alas!  I  knew  that  I  should  never  see  him 
again. 

For  several  months  no  particular  news  of  him 
was  received ;  one  could  only  follow  his  move- 
ments by  uncertain  information  received  at  long 
intervals  about  the  expedition  which  was  push- 
ing with  him  into  that  unknown  land  along  the 
course  of  some  vast  river.  Then  one  day  it  was 
announced  that  while  reconnoitring  alone,  he 
had  perished  after  a  heroic  defence.  It  certainly 
was  not  a  case  of  suicide;  and  yet 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Such  are  the  facts  which  I  recalled  slowly  in 
the  course  of  the  conversation  I  recounted  at 
the  outset.  I  had  ceased  to  ta'ce  part  in  it,  or 
even  to  listen  to  it,  being  borne  away  by  the  cur- 
rent of  my  recollections  which  were  being  grad- 
ually resuscitated  in  my  memory.  I  sought  to 
define  their  uncertain  contours  while  I  gave 
myself  up  to  a  few  vague  reflections. 

"  Alas!"  thought  I,  "  we  know  nothing  about 
others.  We  see  them  come  and  go,  move  about, 
suffer,  love,  and  die,  and  our  unpractised  eye  is 
unable  to  pierce  the  hard  crust  of  appearances, 
to  penetrate  deeper  into  the  regions  of  the  soul, 
those  in  which  live  the  real  being,  eternally  un- 
known to  us,  impenetrable,  inaccessible.  Their 
thoughts  are  manifested  to  us  by  words  which 
we  think  we  understand,  and  we  are  never  sure 
that  we  have  grasped  their  right  sense.  As  to 
their  acts,  ah!  their  acts,  it  is  worse  still;  they 
deceive  us  more  than  their  words!  We  judge 
them,  we  classify  them,  define  them.  We  say: 
These  are  good,  those  are  bad;  these  are  just, 
those  are  unjust;  these  are  admirable, those  are 
without  excuse.  And  our  judgments  are  nearly 
always  as  many  iniquitous  errors;  for  they  are 

.[153] 


154  The  Sacri^ce  of  Sile^ice. 

based  upon  the  crude  categories  which  our  crude 
analysis  of  acts  has  formed. 

"  Acts,  what  do  they  matter  ?  They  are  only 
signs,  more  uncertain  than  words,  and  we  know 
not  how  to  interpret  them.  It  is  acts  alone  that 
we  see,  yet  sentiments  alone  count,  sentiments 
which  escape  us,  for  they  are  enveloped  in  mys- 
tery, and  are  of  such  diversity ! 

"  Alas !  who,  then,  in  these  delicate  things  of 
the  heart,  who  will  draw  the  exact  line  between 
the  limits  of  good  and  evil  ?  Who  will  say  when 
love,  forbidden  by  human  laws,  is  also  forbidden 
by  those  superior  laws  of  which  we  sometimes 
feel  the  divine  indulgence  ?  Who  will  say  when 
the  fault  is  expiated  or  even,  perhaps,  changed 
in  its  very  essence  by  suffering  ?  For,  after  all, 
the  power  to  love  above  all  things,  of  a  heart  ex- 
panded that  breaks  the  chains  of  prejudice,  of  a 
soul  that  rises  superior  to  social  shackles,  is  this 
not  a  virtue  ?  Is  there  not  a  heroism  superior 
to  the  cold  observance  of  rules,  to  the  common- 
place obedience  to  laws  ? 

"  Poor  silent  ones!  How  many  are  the  tears 
of  which  you  have  kept  within  yourselves  all  the 
bitterness!  The  wotmded  man  who  lies  upon 
the  blood-stained  ground  and  awaits  death  with- 
out giving  utterance  to  use-ess  cries  is  admired; 
you  v/ho  dissemble  your  anguish  under  irre- 
proachable masks,  you  who  know  how  to  come, 
to  go,  to  chat,  to  smile  while  your  heart  is  break- 


A  History — Ke7'7noysan.  155 

ing-,  are  you  then  but  miserable  liars  to  be  dis- 
dained ?     No,  no,  you  also  are  heroes." 

I  thought  a  good  many  other  things,  too.  But 
why  transcribe  them  here  ? 

Although  they  may  be  but  acts,  acts  have  their 
eloquence.  Those  that  I  have  described,  if  I 
have  succeeded  in  describing  them,  should  con- 
vey  their  meaning,  and  if  there  be  a  judge,  plead 
before  him  the  cause  of  two  lovers  who  doubtless 
suffered  more  than  they  sinned. 


PART    III. 

ANOTHER   CONVERSATION. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Albert  Portal,  the  well-known  painter,  had  in- 
vited   Jacques    D and    myself   to   visit    his 

studio  and  inspect  his  latest  canvas,  which  was 

about  to  be  sent  to  America.     Jacques  D is 

my  oldest  comrade  in  letters;  but  there  exists 
between  us  a  tie  much  stronger  than  that  of  our 
profession:  a  solid  friendship,  based  upon  es- 
teem, common  efforts,  reciprocal  aid  rendered  in 
the  hour  of  trial,  sympathy,  and  similarity  of 
tastes.  Upon  subjects  anent  which  agreement 
is  indispensable  if  intimacy  is  to  be  fostered  our 
opinions  are  nearly  always  in  accord  °  in  the  af- 
fairs of  life  I  admire  his  uprightness,  his  sound 
judgment,  his  energy,  which  detract  in  nowise 
from  a  sensibility  at  once  ardent  and  gentle,  a 
delicacy  truly  feminine.  Those  who  know  him 
only  by  what  he  has  written  can  have  no  concep- 
tion of  what  he  is,  for  he  has  always  devoted  him- 
self to  works  of  erudition,  somewhat  dry,  exact, 
minute,  impersonal,  in  which  he  disappears  as 
[156] 


Anothei'  Co7iversation.  157 

though  fearful  lest  the  literature  of  imagination^ 
for  which  he  is  so  marvellously  gifted,  should  de- 
velop within  him  certain  virtualities,  certain 
germs,  which  he  suppresses  because  he  regards 
them  as  dangerous.  As  to  Portal,  eulogy  of 
whom  as  an  artist  would  be  superfluous,  he  is 
above  all  a  society  man,  in  great  request  in  ele- 
gant circles,  a  trifle  snobbish,  an  habituj  of  sev- 
eral clubs  and  an  excellent  sportsman.  Which 
is  to  say  that  our  relations  are  rather  casual 
than  otherwise. 

We  had  paid  our  tribute  of  praise  to  his  pic- 
ture, as  well  as  to  some  fine  studies  that  he 
showed  us,  and  reclining  on  an  Oriental  divan 
beside  a  decanter  of  sherry  were  smoking  choice 
cigarettes.  Little  by  little,  our  chat,  which  was 
upon  art  matters,  changed  its  direction;  we  be- 
gan to  talk  about  various  persons  of  promi- 
nence with  who:e  anecdotal  history  Portal  was 
thoroughly  familiar,  and  finally  allusion  was 
made  to  a  recent  scandal — the  sensational  rup- 
ture of  a  liaison  between  a  married  man  and  a 
woman  moving  in  the  best  society,  which  had 
long  been  known  to  everybody.  Portal  re- 
counted to  us  all  the  details  of  the  aff"air  with 
such  minuteness  that  one  might  have  thought  he 
had  played  some  rCle  in  it  himself.  Reclining 
there  with  half  closed  eyes  and  sending  spirals 
of  smoke  towards  the  canopy  of  embroidered 
stuffs  above  the  divan,  he  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
his  own  story  and  the  attention  with  which  we 


158  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

listened  to  it.  In  fact  he  stirred  up  these  sad 
things  seemingly  without  being  so  much  as 
touched  by  the  shadow  of  them,  in  the  tone  in 
which  he  would  have  explained  the  ins  and  outs 
of  a  horse-race,  or  the  hazards  of  a  match.  When 
he  had  nothing  further  to  relate,  he  passed  judg- 
ment: 

"  You  see  that,  on  the  whole,  it  passed  off  more 
correctly  than  might  have  been  supposed  from 
all  the  noise  that  was  made  about  it." 

We  made  no  reply,  and  he  added: 

"  Once  an  intrigue  has  been  discovered  it  has 
got  to  stop,  has  it  not  ?" 

I  was  weak  enough  to  murmur: 

"  Of  course.     That  is  always  what  happens." 

Jacques    D glanced  at  me  reproachfully 

and  asked: 

"  But,  after    all,  have    these  rumors  that  are 

circulating  about    Mme.   X any  foundation 

on  fact  ?     Is  it  true  that  she " 

He  paused  for  a  moment;  then  went  od- 

"  That  she  is  seriously  ill  ?" 

"  Insane,  you  mean  insane,"  rectified  Portal. 
"  But,  pshaw !  I  believe  the  report  is  exaggerated. 
Those  best  informed  say  that  her  mind  is  a  little 
unbalanced,  but  that  she  will  get  over  it  all 
right.  However  this  may  be  she  has  certainly 
taken  the  matter  too  tragically." 

"  And  her  lover  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh !"  said  Portal  with  a  significant  gesture, 
"  he  won't  lose  his  head  for  that,  I  will  guarantee. 


Another  Conversatio7i.  159 

He  was  awfully  annoyed,  of  course,  awfully  an- 
noyed   These  kind  of  adventures  are 

always  disagreeable But  what  could  he 

do  ?  A  woman  who  is  imfaithful  to  her  husband 
is  perfectly  aware  of  the  risk  she  is  running:  she 
has  got  to  see  to  it  that  she  isn't  found  out. 
Now  this  woman  from  the  very  first  has  been 
imprudent !" 

"  Doubtless  because  she  really  loves,"  said  I, 

"  That's  where  she  made  a  mistake,"  declared 
Portal  triumphantly.  "  One  should  never  really 
fall  in  love,  because  then  one  doesn't  know  what 
one  is  doing!" 

Jacques  D who  had  been  fidgetting  at 

Portal's  remarks  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"  Do  you  know  what  especially  strikes  me  in 
histories  of  this  sort  ?"  he  cried.  "  Well,  it  is 
the  roguishness  of  soul  and  the  platitude  of 
heart  that  they  reveal — in  the  case  of  the  man,  I 
mean,  of  course.  This  woman  has  suffered;  I 
can  excuse  her.     But  her  lover  is  a  brute." 

Portal  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  And  why,  pray  ?"  he  demanded. 

My  worthy  friend  continued,  excited  by  his 
passion  for  moralizing: 

"  Let  us  leave  out  of  the  question  the  anecdote 
yoii  have  just  recounted,  dear  monsieur.  It  is 
no  more  nor  less  significant  than  many  others. 
Let  us  see  what  happens  in  nine-tenths  of  such 
cases;  for  these  stories  of  adultery  are  all 
alike " 


i6o  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

^'  "  For  the  lookers  on,  not  for  the  principals," 
observed  Portal  banteringly. 

Jacques,  ignoring  the  interruption,  continued: 

"  A  man  and  woman,  separated  by  circum- 
stances, by  duty — by  life,  in  a  word — fall  in  love 
with  each  other.  Admitting  that  they  be  of 
average  virtue,  they  do  not  surrender  at  the 
first  cry  of  their  desire,  they  fight  against  it, 
they  resist." 

"  More  or  less,"  again  interrupted  Portal. 

"  More  or  less,  so    be    it!"  repeated    D . 

"  A  little,  all  the  same — unless  falling  in  love  is 
habitual  to  them,  in  which  case  they  cease  to 
interest  me.  Therefore,  they  resist  for  a  time. 
Then  they  succumb,  because  their  passion  is 
the  stronger,  because  none  has  ever  loved  as 
they  love,  because — in  short,  for  many  good 
reasons.  Well  and  good.  However  strong  may 
be  their  passion  they  find  means  to  conciliate 
it  with  the  exigencies  of  their  life,  which  is  regu- 
lar in  appearance,  and  to  which  they  are  loath 
to  sacrifice  it.  Oh!  no;  they  enjoy  love's  bliss 
incosfnito  for  a  certain  number  of  weeks,  or 
months,  'or  years " 

That  insupportable  Portal  again  interrupted 
him. 

"  Oh !  years !"  he  exclaimed  sceptically. 

"  The  length  of  time  it  lasts  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  matter,"  said  Jacques  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience.  "  At  first  they  regard  them- 
selves as  victims  of  social  order,  which  is  unjust 


Another  Conversation.  i6i 

and  tyrannical;  that  is  understood.  They  seek 
excuses,  and  find  them.  Then  the  time  comes 
when  they  no  longer  need  them.  They  prac- 
tice lying,  deceit  and  hypocrisy  in  all  security. 
Then  it  is  that  the  trouble  begins.  Some  in- 
cident occurs — a  letter  mislaid,  a  lie  found  out, 
an  imprudently  arranged  rendezvous.  Their 
relations  are  discovered.  You  imagine  that  a 
drama  will  follow  ?  Not  at  all.  There  are  a 
few  comedy  scenes,  nothing  more.  Explana- 
tions are  in  order.  The  deceived  husband  or 
wife  demands  his  or  her  rights,  makes  a  fuss, 
threatens.  The  courts,  divorce,  scandal,  loom 
upon  the  horizon.  But  at  this  moment  the 
lovers  discover  that  marriage  is  sacred;  that 
the  one  or  the  other  has  children  whose  fu- 
ture must  not  be  compromised;  that  the  ties 
that  bind  them  to  their  respective  life  partners 
are  more  solid  than  they  imagined;  that  the 
family  stew  is  more  wholesome  and  more  indis- 
pensable, if  not  more  succulent,  food  than  game 
that  is  high — and  they  separate.  Good  day, 
good  night;  it's  all  over,  say  nothing  more  about 
it." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Portal.  "  That  is  pre- 
cisely the  way  these  affairs  usually  go.  Besides, 
is  it  not  the  best  denouement  they  can  have?" 

"  Well,"  continued  Jacques,  ''  I  am  simple 
enough  to  consider  it  utterly  miserable !  Yes,  I 
imagine  that  when  one  has  loved  enough  to  for- 
get one's  duty — permit  me  to  employ  this  old 


1 62  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

out-of-date  word — one  ought  to  accept  all  the 
consequences  of  that  forgetfulness.  Furthermore, 
I  imagine  that  if  love  has  lost  its  early  freshness 
and  empire,  one  ought  to  sacrifice  the  rest  to  it 
out  of  pure  dignity  and  self  respect." 

This  time  Portal  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  cried,  "  where  do 
you  come  from  ?  This  is  no  longer  the  epoch 
of  romanticism.  And  then,  what  morality! 
Come,  now,  what  would  become  of  society  if 
everybody  thought  as  you  do  ?  It  would  have 
to  be  shaken  to  its  bases  at  the  first  infringe- 
ment of  a  marriage  contract." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  society!"  replied 
Jacques.  "  Society  manages  to  get  along  some- 
how, no  matter  what  happens.  Besides,  the  in- 
dividual interests  me  much  more  than  society 
does.  I  like  to  see  him  develop  nobly,  unre- 
strained by  convention  and  prejudice.  Either 
love  is  a  crime,  in  which  case  we  must  not  love, 
or  it  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  life,  and  has 
a  right  to  the  necessary  sacrifices." 

Portal  raised  his  arms. 

"  Heavens!  what  logic!"  he  exclaimed,  *'  I  did 
not  know  you  in  this  light,  vion  cher  !  You  are  a 
nihilist,  an  anarchist,  a  most  dangerous  man! 
For  my  part,  I  look  at  things  more  simply.  I 
think  it  is  a  good  thing  to  take  and  leave  each 
other  with  facility,  and  I  think  it  is  most  fortu- 
nate that  the  immense  majority  of  our  con- 
temporaries hold  the  same  view  that  I  do.     What 


Another  Conversation.  i6 


J 


do  I  say,  the  majority  ?  The  totality,  mon  cher, 
the  totality.  I  could  relate  ten,  fifteen,  twenty 
such  histories  as  the  one  I  recounted  just  now. 
It  would  be  difficult  for  you  to  cite  a  single  case 
which  ended  in  a  way  after  your  own  heart — 
unless,  perhaps,  you  looked  for  it  in  the  Gazette 
des  Tribunauxy 

Jacques  D shook  his  heado 

"  That  is  so,"  said  he,  "  and  I  regret  it  for  the 
men  of  our  time.     And  yet " 

He  paused,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on: 

"  And  yet,  if  you  like,  I  can  relate  a  case  which 
differs  a  little  from  them.  Although  more  rare 
it  has  I  think  as  much  meaning.  It  will  demon- 
strate to  you,  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  listen 
to  it,  that  the  contemporary  soul  is  still  suscepti- 
ble of  some  exaltation.  Perhaps  we  brush  up 
against  many  like  it,  but  we  don't  know  it,  or 
else  we  forget  them  because  they  are  of  those 
that  develop  only  in  silence.  It  was  by  mere 
chance  that  this  one  was  revealed  to  me.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Portal,  as  he  off ered  us  some 
fresh  cigarettes,  "  Go  ahead." 

Jacques  D then  recounted  what  follows, 

as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  reconstitute  it. 


PART    IV. 

ANOTHER    STORY. 
TO   THE   END   OF    THE   FAULT. 


CHAPTER    I. 


PRELUDE. 


During  the  summer  of  i88 — ,  I  passed  several 
weeks  at  Weimar.  I  was  then  occupying  my- 
self with  Goethe,  and  wanted  to  consult  certain 
documents  that  I  could  not  have  found  elsewhere, 
and,  even  more,  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  in 
which  the  great  man  had  lived :  it  seemed  to  me 
that  in  this  way  I  should  be  able  to  get  nearer  to 
the  secrets  of  his  heart  or  those  of  his  mind. 
The  results  of  this  experiment  was  that  in  a  very 
short  time  Host  a  good  many  illusions  about  him 
that  I  had  entertained.  Still,  there  remained 
one.  I  admired  the  manner  in  which  this  man, 
who  was  in  every  respect  one  of  the  precursors 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  remained  in  the 
eighteenth  century  as  regards  all  that  is  of  the 
conception  and  arrangement  of  life.  To  the 
end,  although  he  had  written  Werther  and  read 
[164] 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  165 

Reni^  he  pertained  to  that  fine  epoch  which  knew 
so  well  how  to  savor  existence.  Few  men  have 
had  a  more  robust  inclination  to  be  happy;  thus, 
Weimar  belonging  to  him,  he  remade,  arranged, 
and  disposed  his  little  residence  with  marvel- 
ous ability,  with  a  view  to  comfort,  pleasure  and 
enjoyment.  It  bears  as  its  stamp,  and  all  that 
one  sees — the  house,  the  park,  the  theatre — 
arouses,  the  idea  of  an  easy,  harmonious  and 
sweet  existence.  Everything,  even  to  that  queer 
little  River  Ilm,  which  rolls  its  brown  waters  in 
the  deep  shade  of  the  fine  old  trees,  seems  to 
sing  of  gaiety. 

This  clever  arrangement,  this  artificial  char- 
acter of  the  little  town  displeased  me.  Too 
many  storms  have  passed  over  the  world  for  us 
to  be  able  to  taste  of  much  of  the  great  egotist's 
"Olympianism,"  and  I  was  irritated  that  it  should 
be  exhibited  everywhere  in  calm  unconcern,  as 
though  we  were  still  in  the  good  old  rococo  times 
of  Charles  Augustus,  the  Duchess  Mother,  and 
Frau  von  Stein.  The  personages  of  Goerhenian 
history,  whose  portraits  followed  me  everywhere, 
inspired  me  with  antipathy,  as  did  the  hero  him- 
self. I  bore  a  grudge  against  them  for  having 
been  too  happy.  I  would  very  gladly  have  left 
them  now  and  then  to  go  and  lounge  aimlessly 
in  the  Thuringian  forests,  had  I  not  been  anxious 
to  finish  the  work  which  detained  me  at  Wei- 
mar. 

I  had   installed   myself   at   the  Crown  Prince 


1 66  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

Hotel,  at  the  corner  of  the  market-place,  the 
part  of  the  town  that  was  the  least  dull.  It  is  an 
immense,  patriarchal  house,  where  one  is  de- 
cently lodged  and  the  food  is  pretty  good.  But 
the  meals,  which  were  too  long  and  too  copious, 
seemed  dreary  in  the  vast  dining-room  orna- 
mented with  plaster  busts  of  the  founders  of  the 
empire,  little  busts  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  as  in- 
evitable as  destiny,  and  a  few  other  busts,  also 
in  plaster,  of  the  most  popular  among  the  sov- 
ereij:ns  of  the  country.  There  was  a  procession 
of  tourists  armed  with  their  Bcedeker^  who  re- 
mained a  day  or  two,  visited  the  places  of  interest 
in  the  town,  and  disappeared.  Apart  from  a 
few  insignificant  sentences  exchanged  here  and 
there  with  chance  companions,  I  was  reduced  to 
my  own  society,  for  which  I  have  never  had  any 
particular  predilection. 

After  ten  days  of  this  monotonous  existence, 
the  solitude  was  beginning  to  pall  upon  me  when 
I  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  young  Ger- 
man professor.  Dr.  Christian  Hort,  whom  I  met 
constantly  at  the  Goethe  Museum.  We  began 
by  an  exchange  of  reflections  before  one  of  the 
innumerable  portraits  of  Christiane.  I  ventured 
the  observation  that  with  her  bright  air,  her  fine 
sensuous  lips,  her  large  candid  eyes,  and  the 
good  h7imor  of  her  fat  face,  Goethe's  lawful  wife 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  most  sympathetic  in  the 
gallery  of  women  he  had  loved.  Dr.  Hort  was 
not  of  my  way  of  thinking.     He  had  a  weakness 


To  the  End  of  tJie  Faiilt.  167 

for  Betty,  whose  roguish  look  and  saucy  air 
pleased  him.  Question  of  taste !  However,  this 
discussion  served  as  a  point  of  departure  for 
others.  As  the  halls  of  the  Goethe  Museum, 
with  the  non-commissioned  officers  guarding  it, 
and  the  respectful  silence  that  filled  it  were  not 
particularly  favorable  to  our  conversations,  we 
ended  by  continuing  them  in  the  park.  One  day 
as  we  passed,  while  chatting,  in  front  of  one  of 
the  compact  little  villas  surrounded  with  trees 
that  skirt  it,  a  couple  issued  who  at  once  attracted 
my  attention.  The  woman,  very  tall  and  slen- 
der, was  of  an  elegance  altogether  unlooked  for 
in  Weimar,  and  that  enhanced  still  more  the 
nobleness  of  her  manner  and  the  harmony  of 
her  movements.  She  wore  a  thick  veil  that  pre- 
vented me  from  seeing  her  face.  The  man  was 
remarkably  handsome,  with  regular  and  clear- 
cut  features,  a  dark  complexion  set  o£E  by  a  very 
black  moustache,  and  an  air  of  easy  assurance. 
They  went  without  looking  at  anj^hing,  haught- 
ily indifferent  to  the  chance  scenery  in  which 
they  were  enframed,  absorbed,  both  of  them,  by 
something  invisible  that  was  passing  within  them, 
I  gazed  after  them,  and  my  companion  said: 

"  They  are  French." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ?"  I  eKclaimed,  astonished 
to  find  French  people  residing  in  a  little  German 
villa. 

"  Yes,"  went  on  Dr.  Hort,  "  they  are  French. 


1 68  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

They  have  been  here  nearly  two  years,  so  I  have 
been  told." 

"  What  are  they  doing  here  ?" 

"  Nobody  knows.  They  rarely  go  out.  The 
woman  is  always  veiled  like  she  is  to-day.  I 
have  met  her  nearly  a  dozen  times,  but  I  have 
never  seen  her  features.  Moreover  they  know 
nobody,  see  nobody,  and  speak  to  nobody." 

"  There  is  a  mystery  about  them,  then  !" 

"  Nobody  knows  anything  about  them  except 
their  name,  and  nobody  is  sure  that  even  that  is 
authentic." 

"  What  do  they  call  themselves  ?" 

"  De  Sourbelles." 

I  had  to  get  him  to  repeat  the  name  two  or 
three  times,  he  pronounced  it  so  queerly. 

"  De  Sourbelles,"  I  murmured,  "  it  sounds 
familiar  to  me." 

I  must  have  heard  the  name  somewhere  but 
I  could  not  recall  where. 

"  They  do  say  that  there  is  a  drama  in  their 
past,"  continued  Dr.  Hort,  "  but  no  one  knows 
just  what  it  is.  Some  assert  that  they  are  not 
married ;  others  that  they  came  here  after  a  great 
scandal.  They  have  excited  a  good  deal  of  in- 
terest in  the  town,  but  as  their  servants  won't 
talk  people  are  reduced  to  conjectures." 

The  really  strong  impression  the  unknown 
couple  had  made  upon  me  during  the  glimpse  I 
got  of  them  excited  my  curiosity  even  more  than 
this    incomplete    information    about    them.     I 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  169 

therefore  returned  and  strolled  about  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  villa.  In  vain:  with  its 
half-closed  grey  shutters,  its  brick-colored  walls, 
the  trees  that  hid  it,  the  creeper  that  climbed  to 
the  balconies,  and  the  silence  that  surrounded 
it,  the  place  appeared  more  and  more  mysterious 
to  me.  As  to  its  inmates,  I  saw  nothing  more 
of  them:  no  external  sign  gave  evidence  of  their 
existence.  On  two  or  three  occasions  the  white- 
capped  head  of  a  servant  appeared  at  a  window 
as  she  quickly  opened  or  closed  the  shutters. 
That  was  all.  Now  and  then.  Dr.  Hort,  who 
knew  all  the  gossip  that  went  on  in  the  town 
told  me  something  of  their  doings,  but  this  in- 
formation was  not  very  conclusive.  It  was  never 
anything  more  important  than  the  fact  that  they 
had  made  a  purchase  in  one  of  the  shops  or  had 
made  a  trip  to  Eisenach  or  Coburg,  or  had  been 
seen  at  the  theatre  in  the  rear  of  a  box.  The 
less  my  companion  managed  to  find  out  about 
the  mysterious  strangers,  the  more  he  occupied 
himself  about  them. 

"  I  shall  soon  have  to  go  away,"  he  said, "  and 
I  shall  know  nothing  about  these  people  !'* 

He  added  melancholily : 

"  How  is  it  that  it  is  easier  to  get  information 
about  the  dead  than  about  the  living  ?  I  know 
Frau  von  Stein  as  well  as  if  I  saw  her  every  day. 
I  know  the  exact  shade  of  her  hair,  the  hours  at 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  take  her  meals, 
what  she  thought  about  everything,  how  she  was 


1 70  The  Sacmfice  of  Silence. 

dressed,  etc.,  etc.  And  I  have  never  been  able 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  tip  of  Mme.  de  Sour- 
belles'  nose!" 

"  It  is  for  that  reason  that  it  is  better  to  write 
history  than  romance,"  said  I. 

One  day,  as  I  entered  the  dining  room  of  my 
hotel,  I  was  surprised  to  see,  next  to  my  accus- 
tomed place,  the  delicate  profile  of  M.  de  Sour- 
belles.  He  had  just  finished  his  soup,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  contemplating  with  extreme  atten- 
tion the  bust  of  the  reigning  duke  that  happened 
to  be  opposite  to  him.  I  spoke  to  him  in  French. 
He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment  and  responded, 
but  did  not  allow  the  conversation  to  keep  up. 
Thinking  that  he  was  determined  to  keep  to 
himself  I  did  not  persist,  and  the  meal  went  on 
in  silence.  On  rising  from  the  table  we  ex- 
changed a  slight  salute. 

The  next  day,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  he 
was  there  again  and  it  was  he  who  broke  the  ice. 
He  began  to  talk,  and  he  talked  a  good  deal,  like 
a  man  who  for  a  long  time  had  not  spoken  in  his 
native  tongue,  who  rejoiced  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice,  and  had  suddenly  taken  a  dispropor- 
tionate interest  in  a  thousand  different  things. 
I  soon  saw  that  he  was  intelligent,  of  literary 
tastes,  of  open  mind  and  excellent  education, 
and  that  he  possessed  original  and  unexpected 
points  of  view  that  he  liked  to  expose.  But  he 
spoke  only  of  things,  never  of  himself.  After 
a  few  dinners  partaken  of  side  by  side,  after  a 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  1 7  T 

few  strolls  together  that  he  proposed,  after  two 
or  three  evenings  spent  in  one  of  the  concert 
gardens,  where  one  can  kill  time  without  too 
much  difficulty,  thanks  to  the  beer  and  cigars, 
while  a  military  band  plays  Wagner's  overtures, 
we  had  touched  upon  about  all  the  subjects  which 
cultivated  persons  like  to  discuss.  I  was  ac- 
quainted with  the  political  and  religious  opinions 
of  my  chance  companion,  his  literary  leanings, 
his  artistic  preferences,  his  views  on  the  new 
Germany,  the  Emperor,  the  Reichstag  and  the 
socialists :  but  I  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing 
at  Weimar,  nor  whence  he  came — in  short,  I  knew 
absolutely  nothing  about  him.  Not  a  word  had 
he  uttered  that  could  serve  as  an  indication,  or 
help  me  to  frame  any  supposition.  But  once, 
when  I  complained  of  the  artificial  aspect  of 
Weimar,  he  let  slip  the  exclamation: 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  tiresome  and  monotonous  town." 

He  divined,  no  doubt,  the  indiscreet  question 
I  was  keeping  back  :  "  If  it  bores  you  so,  why 
do  you  stay  here  ?"  for  after  some  hesitation  he 
added : 

"  But,  what  will  you  ?  It  is  after  all  better 
than  a  good  many  other  German  towns.  .  .  , 
It  is  not  too  Prussian.  .  .  .  And  one  is  pretty 
sure  of  not  meeting  any  fellow  countrymen  one 
knows." 

This  last  sentence  struck  my  imagination, 
which  began  to  work  upon  this  scarcely  sketched 
theme:    I    said    to    myself  that    M.    de    Sour- 


172  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

belles  had  no  doubt  come  to  Weimar  to  be 
really  alone,  out  of  the  way  of  the  bores  one 
finds  at  all  the  fashionable  resorts,  and  that  there 
were  reasons  for  this  course  that  I  probably 
should  never  know.  On  the  other  hand  my 
curiosity  diminished  in  proportion  as  the  sym- 
pathy with  which  he  inspired  me  increased.  In 
the  end  I  should  have  resigned  myself  to  accept- 
ing him  as  I  found  him,  with  his  delicate  mind 
tinged  with  melancholv,  and  his  keen  intelli- 
gence  that  was  somewhat  inclined  to  be  para- 
doxical, congratulating  myself  on  having  met 
him  and  bothering  no  more  about  his  past  than 
that  of  Dr.  Hort  or  of  anybody  else,  when,  one 

day,  after  the  coffee  we  had  been  taking  together, 

he  said  brusquely : 

"  I  have   to  inform    you,  monsieur,  that    we 

meet  to-day  for  the  last  time." 

"  What !"  I  exclaimed.     "  Are  you  then  going 

away  ?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  and  replied  in  a  tone 

which  he  sought  to  render  indifferent: 

"  No,  I  am  not  going  away.     .     .     .     Mme. 

de  Sourbelles  was  absent;  she  returns  to-night 
I  came  to  the   Crown   Prince  Hotel 

because  I  was  so  lonely.     Now  it  is  all  over;  I 

shall  return  to  my  villa  and  resume  my  usual 

life." 

I  had  a  good  mind  to  ask  him  why  his  wife's 

return  necessitated  the  complete  interruption  of 


To  the  End  of  the  Faidt.  173 

our  relations;  but  I  suppressed  the  question 
which  surprise  had  almost  drawn  from  me. 

I  awaited  a  word  of  explanation.  None  was 
forthcoming.  I  felt  a  little  hurt,  I  admit,  es- 
pecially as  I  had  put  myself  out  to  make  myself 
agreeable  to  him,  and  resolved  to  leave  him 
coldly;  but  there  was  such  cordiality  in  what  he 
said  afterwards,  such  sympathy,  such  evident 
regret  in  the  .grasp  of  his  hand,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I  re- 
gretted to  lose  him,  so  that  our  farewell  was 
positively  friendly. 

"  This  is  very  singular,"  thought  I,  "  more 
singular  than  all  the  rest  I  He  appeared  to  take 
pleasure  in  my  company,  we  are  foreigners, 
both  of  us,  and  compatriots  at  that,  lost  in  a 
town  that  has  little  attraction  for  us,  among 
these  Goethrolatriates  whose  fetishism  irritates 
us ;  what  is  there  then  to  prevent  him  from  in- 
viting me  to  call  upon  him  or,  at  the  very  least, 
to  look  me  up  occasionally  at  the  hotel  ?" 

As  I  still  had  a  few  days  to  pass  at  Weimar  I 
fell  back  upon  Dr.  Hort,  whom  I  had  somewhat 
neglected,  but  who  did  not  appear  to  mind. 

The  worthy  savant  continued  to  frequent  the 
Goethe  Museum,  but  his  tastes  had  undergone 
some  modification.  He  had  grown  tired  of 
Betty's  pretty,  irregular  featured  face,  and  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  the  dishevelled  Maximihane, 
upon  Vv'hom  he  discanted  with  much  exuber- 
ance. 


r  74  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"  You  have  a  romantic  imagination,"  I  said 
jokingly. 

He  defended  himself  against  this  charge  to 
the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  Do  not  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  I  like  Max- 
imiliane  on  account  of  her  badly  combed  hair: 
it  is  because  she  was  unhappy.  She  had  indeed 
a  romantic  imagination,  as  you  say !  Her  imag- 
ination gave  a  dramatic  color  to  Goethe's  aban- 
donment of  her  that  I  rather  like." 

"  A  vulgar  story !"  I  replied,  "  on  Goethe's 
part,  at  any  rate.  For  that  matter,  your  great 
man  never  had  any  but  mediocre  sentiments: 
he  was  one  of  those  who  only  know  how  to  love 
themselves.  I  have  got  my  knife  into  him  since 
I  have  been  studying  him.  Those  he  deceived 
— he  deceived  all  those  who  loved  him — were 
better  than  he  was." 

I  expected  some  protest,  for  the  Goethe  wor- 
shipers will  not  allow  anyone  to  belittle  their 
idol.  Dr.  Hort,  however,  merely  shook  his  good, 
big,  blond  head  as  he  replied,  with  a  gleam  in 
his  eyes: 

"Are  not  women,  in  these  matters,  always 
superior  to  men  ?  In  the  first  place,  it  is  always 
the  woman  who  suffers,  and — must  I  admit  it  ? 
— I  have  infinite  sympathy  with  and  curiosity 
anent  her  suffering." 

We  were  walking  in  the  park  while  exchanging 
these  remarks,  and  just  at  that  minute  came  in 
sight  of  the  Sourbelles'  little  brick  house,  which 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  i  75 

was  as  closely  shut  up  and  as  silent  as  usual. 
Hort  pointed  to  it  with  his  walking-stick  and 
continued : 

"  For  instance,  I  would  give  a  deal,  a  good  deal, 
to  know  what  goes  on  in  there !  For  something 
is  going  on,  of  that  I  am  convinced.  .  .  And, 
as  always,  when  something  between  a  man  and 
woman  is  going  on,  it  is  the  woman  who  is  the 
victim." 

He  sighed,  then  remarked : 

"  You  are  lucky,  you,  to  have  been  able  to 
talk  with  M.  de  Sourbelles." 

"Oh I"  said  I  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
"  for  anything  he  told  me !" 

"  No  matter,  you  have  at  least  heard  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  You  got  a  direct  impression  from 
him.  You  were  even  in  the  position  to  feel 
something  of  his  character  and  life." 

"  All  that  I  know  is  that  he  does  not  give  one 
the  impression  of  being  happy, — nor  that  of  be- 
ing a  brute,  I  assure  you.' 

"  He  told  you  nothing  about  her — about  his 
mysterious  companion,  of  course  ?  Why  does 
she  always  hide  her  face  ?  Why  did  she  go  away  ? 
Why  did  she  come  back  ?  I  know  well  enough 
that  all  this  is  none  of  my  business.  .  .  But 
that  only  interests  me  the  more." 

There  was  in  this  naive  curiosity,  which  was 
too  benevolent  to  be  displeasing,  and  besides, 
was  incapable  of  indiscretion,  something  really 
comical. 


1 76  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"Well,  console  yourself!"  I  said  to  the  good 
savant.  "  It  is  probable  that  your  unknown 
friends  will  go  away  one  of  these  days  as  mys- 
teriously as  they  came.  Then,  in  addition  to  the 
other  '  whys,'  you  will  be  asking  yourself  '  Why 
have  they  left  ?'  Then  you  will  forget  all  about 
them.  So  goes  the  world.  We  brush  up 
against  many  mysteries,  we  know  next  to  noth- 
ing about  our  neighbor — a  fact  which  does  not 
prevent  us  from  judging  him,  on  occasion.  Be- 
lieve me,  it  is  better  to  occupy  ourselves  about 
ourselves — or  about  handsome  ladies,  dead  a  hun- 
dred years,  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  take  the 
fancy  of  your  Goethe." 

Time  passed,  summer  w^as  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  old  trees  in  the  park  were 
beginning  to  take  on  their  autumnal  tints.  My 
work  was  well  advanced  and  the  time  for  my 
departure  was  drawing  near.  It  was  not  with- 
out pleasure  that  I  looked  forward  to  it.  I  had 
breathed  more  Goethean  air  than  my  lungs  could 
support,  and  I  was  tired  of  the  queer  little  town 
which  seems  to  be  an  anachronism,  as  much  out 
of  place  in  modern  Germany  as  a  cocked  hat 
would  be  on  the  head  of  a  Prussian  general.  I 
did  not  therefore  suppose  that  I  should  see  M. 
de  Sourbelles  again,  or  learn  anything  about 
him. 

But  one  morning  when  I  returned  to  dinner 
I  met  Dr.  Hort  in  front  of  the  hotel.  He  was 
visibly  excited,  and  appeared  to  be  as  much  sur- 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  177 

prised  at  my  calmness  as  I  was  at  his  agita- 
tion. 

"  Don't  you  then  know  anything  about  it  ?" 
he  demanded. 

"  No,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Is  it  possible !  Why,  nothing  else  has  been 
talked  about  for  hours!  Mme.  de  Sourbelles  is 
dead!" 

And  lowering  his  voice : 

"  They  do  say  that  she  has  been  poisoned!" 

Thereupon  he  ran  to  the  head  cellar  man  who 
was  lounging  in  the  hall  and  who  he  thought 
would  know  something  about  it.  The  head 
cellar  man  recounted  all  he  knew.  The  com- 
missary of  police  had  already  been  to  the  house ; 
there  had  been  an  active  exchange  of  telegrams 
between  Weimar  and  Paris;  it  had  been  proved 
that  it  was  a  case  of  suicide;  the  woman  had 
taken  arsenic,  and  had  suffered  horribly;  the 
body  probably  would  be  taken  to  France. 

"  And  the  husband  ?"     I  asked. 

Gossip  of  the  most  contradictory  kind  about 
the  state  of  M.  de  Sourbelles'  mind  was  indulged 
in.  According  to  some  he  was  in  despair;  others 
averred  that  the  tragical  denouement  was  his 
fault ;  at  first  some  had  even  ventured  the  hypo- 
thesis that  a  crime  had  been  committed.  In 
speaking  of  him  the  cellar  man  smiled  half  dis- 
dainfully, with  that  hostile  air  which  is  readily 
assumed  towards  those  one  does  not  understand. 

I  was  filled  with  an  immense  pity  for  this  poor, 


I  'j'S)  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

abandoned  man,  surrounded  by  suspicion,  and 
^vho  must  be  suffering  horribly  with  a  grief  that 
was  condemned  to  devour  itself  and  Avhich  noth- 
ing could  relieve.  I  could  see  him  shut  up  in 
his  villa,  alone  with  his  dead  wife,  his  memories, 
his  thoughts — his  remorse,  perhaps.  I  argued 
that  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  would  do  him 
good,  that  inasmuch  as  we  belonged  to  the  same 
country  I  was  the  only  one  from  whom  he  could 
hope  for  a  little  help.  Nevertheless  I  did  not 
like  to  ring  at  his  bell.  I  wrote  a  line  on  my 
card,  expressing  my  sympathy,  and  placing  my- 
self at  his  disposal  if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance 
to  him,  and  sent  it  to  him  by  one  of  the  hotel 
servants.  A  few  minutes  later  I  received  an 
answer.  M.  de  Sourbelles  begged  me  to  call 
upon  him.  I  immediately  responded  to  his 
invitation. 

The  house  had  that  desolate  appearance  of 
homes  where  death  has  entered.  Upset  as  I  was 
I  could  not  help  noticing  its  aspect.  It  must  have 
been  furnished  in  old  German  fashion,  for  in  the 
hall  were  heavy  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  hanging 
forged  iron  lamp  in  this  style.  I  recognized  the 
same  style  in  the  furniture  of  the  drawing-room 
into  which  I  was  ushered;  but  there  it  was  re- 
lieved by  a  number  of  objects  of  foreign  origin. 
These  denoted  an  elegant  taste,  the  taste  of  a 
woman  accustomed  to  the  dainty  things  of  a 
highly  distinguished  milieu,  and  who  had  sought 
to  transplant   something    of   this   milieu    to  her 


To  the  End  of  the  Faiilt.  1 79 

chance  surroundings.  Several  pictures  of  the 
French  school  attracted  my  attention.  Among 
them  was  a  Besnard  that  I  had  admired  at  one 
of  the  Champs  de  Mars  salons — the  profile  of  a 
woman  standing  out  in  violet  shade  against  the 
back  ground  of  the  setting  sun.  On  the  mantel- 
piece, on  which  the  commonplace  ornaments  had 
been  left,  I  remarked  two  precious  vases  by 
Emile  Galle.  An  open  volume  was  on  the  table, 
together  with  two  or  three  yellow  covered  books. 
The  open  volume  was  Jean  Labor's  Illusion. 
From  a  work  basket  hung  a  piece  of  complicated 
embroidery,  as  though  it  had  just  been  thrown 
there  carelessly.  Everything  seemed  to  bear  the 
reflection  of  the  life  that  had  animated  it  the  day 
before  and  which  had  just  died  out : 

I  did  not  have  much  time  to  look  about  me, 
however,  for  M.  de  Sourbelles  entered.  I  was 
seized  with  an  emotion  so  poignant  that  my 
knees  shook,  so  terribly  painful  was  his  appear- 
ance. He  was  no  longer  the  man  I  had  met 
such  a  short  time  before  at  the  table  of  the 
Crown  Prince  Hotel,  and  whose  bright  chat 
touched  upon  all  subjects  with  almost  fa- 
miliar frankness  and  ease.  His  handsome 
face  was  drawn  and  furrowed  by  wrinkles  that  I 
had  not  seen  there ;  his  swollen  eyes  gazed  rest- 
lessly around  him  with  haggard  look;  his  hair 
was  dishevelled ;  his  unbuttoned  shirt  was  open 
at  his  breast;  the  negligence  of  his  attire  and 
manner,  which  had  formerly  been  so  studiously 


1 80  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

correct,  showed  that  he  had  become  indifferent 
to  everything.  He  stopped  at  the  door,  looked 
at  me  with  a  despairing  gaze,  then  as  I  ap- 
proached him,  he  held  out  his  hand  and  mur- 
mured in  a  choking  voice: 
"  Thanks  for  coming." 

I  stammered  a  few  words  that  he  did  not  hear. 
He  began  to  pace  to  and  fro,  his  hands  thrust 
in  the  pockets  of  his  smoking  jacket,  with  that 
air  of    a  caged  wild  beast   which  indicates  that 
excitement  is  at  its  paroxysm.     Soon  the  nar- 
row space  of  the  little  drawing-room    was  not 
sufficient  for  him  and  he  went  on  into  the  dining- 
room  of  which  I  could  see  the  high  dresser  with 
its  ancient  crockery.     Long  minutes  passed  in 
this  way.     Feeling  that  no  words  could  relieve 
him  I  stood  near  the  unfinished  embroidery  fol- 
lowing him  with  my   eyes.     At  length  the  bell 
rang.     M.   de   Sourbelles  started,  and   listened. 
A  telegram  was  brought  to  him.     He  opened  it, 
perused  it,  crumpled  it  up  with   a   shrug  of  his 
shoulders    and   began  to  walk  to  and  fro  again. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  in  front  of  me. 

"  Pardon  me  for  receiving  you  in  this  manner," 
he  said,  with  a  great  effort  to  speak  naturally. 
"  You  will  excuse  me,  will  you  not  ?" 

I  bowed.     He  continued: 

"  You  know  ?" 

I  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  You  know  all  ?"  he  repeated. 

I  replied  gently : 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault,  1 8 1 

"  I  know  that  a  great  sorrow  has  fallen  upon 
you." 

He  wrung  his  hands. 

"  Ach  !"  he  cried,  employing  that  so  expressive 
German  exclamation.  "  No,  you  cannot  know! 
For  it  is  too  dreadful!  ....  She  suf- 
fered horribly!  ....  You  cannot  imagine  it! 
.  ...  My  God!  My  God!  ....  The  death 
struggle  was  so  long !  .  .  .  .  You  cannot  imagine 
it,  it  is  impossible!" 

He  repeated  the  same  words,  the  same  broken 
sentences  without  sequence.  Then  he  resumed 
his  walking,  stopped  in  front  of  me,  gazed  long 
at  me  with  an  indescribable  expression  of  sor- 
row and  repeated  what  he  had  just  said,  or 
touched  or  displaced  some  object. 

"  Only  yesterday  she  was  reading  this!"  he 
said,  picking  up  one  of  the  volumes  I  had  noticed 
on  the  table.  "  She  also  worked  at  this  em- 
broidery." 

He  fondled  it  awhile. 

"  She  appeared  to  be  so  calm.  There  was  no- 
thing unusual  about  her.  .  .  .  Could  I  foresee 
it  ?  .  .  .  .  We  talked  together  affectionately,  very 
affectionately.  My  God!  how  she  must  have 
suffered  to — to  inflict  this  torture  upon  me.  .  .  . 
For  she  was  good.  .  .  .  Poor,  dear  soul !" 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes : 

"  Yes,  poor  soul,  noble,  generous.  .  .  .  That 
was  tormented  so !     Poor  ....  poor  .   ,  .   . " 

He  burst  into  tears.     With  the  movement  of  o, 


1 82  The  Sac7'ijice  of  Silence. 

child  that  is  hurt  and  looks  around  for  help  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  me  and  fell  into  my 
arms.     Then  he  drew  back. 

"  Pardon!"  he  said.  "  I  hardly  know  you.  .  .  . 
You  could  not  understand  me.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
choking,  choking  because  I  have  no  one  to  whom 
I  can  tell  it— tell  it  all !  ....  Oh !  silence !  .  .  . 
If  you  only  knew  how  heavy  it  is  to  bear  some- 
times !,...!  said  nothing,  I  kept  as  quiet  as 
I  could.  .  .  .  Yet  she  heard  me,  she,  she  who 
ought  never  to  have  known  it !  ...  It  is  not 
my  fault,  for  I  did  all  that  I  could,  all  that  I  could ! 
.  .  .  .  How  she  must  have  suffered!  ....  How 
she  must  have  suffered!" 

It  was  to  this  idea  that  he  reverted  cease- 
lessly; he  was  clearly  thinking  more  about  the 
dead  woman's  suffering  than  his  own.  He  for- 
got himself.  He  was  weeping  in  her  stead  for 
what  she  had  borne.  The  pity  with  which  he 
inspired  me  became  the  more  keen.  But  what 
could  I  say  to  him  ?  I  squeezed  his  hand,  and 
stammered  clumsy  words  to  assure  him  of  my 
sympathy.  However  awkward  I  may  have  been, 
my  sympathy  did  him  good,  for  he  thanked  me. 

"  I  felt  that  there  was  a  tie  between  us,"  he 
said  in  calmer  tone.  "  Yet  I  was  scarcely  polite 
when  I  quitted  you.  ...  I  must  have  ap- 
peared strange  to  you.  .  .  .  musn't  I  ?  If 
you  knew  you  would  no  longer  be  astonished  at 
anything — at  anything  except  at  seeing  me  alive, 
now  that  she  is  dead  1" 


To  the  End  of  the  Fault.  1 8 3 

He  stopped;  walked  twice  around  the  room, 
then  returned  to  me. 

"  After  all,  why  should  you  not  know  ?"  he 
said.  "  Why  should  I  not  tell  you  everything  ? 
What  does  it  matter  now  if  anybody  does  know  ? 
It  is  she  who  ought  never  to  have  known.  You 
will  hsten  to  me,  won't  you  ?  Perhaps  it  will  do 
me  good  to  stir  up  these  things.  Come,  then! 
.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  to  her !  .  .  .  I  will  not 
leave  her  alone.  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  leave 
her  alone.  .  .  .  Think  of  it,  she  has  all  eter- 
nity in  which  to  be  alone,  away  from  me !  .  .  . 
Come,  will  you  ?" 

He  quitted  the  drawing-room.  I  followed 
him  to  the  first  floor.  He  ushered  me  into  a 
sort  of  boudoir,  hung  with  dark- colored  stuffs, 
cleverly  disposed  curtains  obscured  the  light 
from  the  two  windows.  There  in  a  shadowy 
twilight  lay  the  dead  woman  upon  a  lounge,  sur- 
rounded by  a  harvest  of  flowers  that  ladened  the 
air  heavily  with  their  perfume.  A  long  veil  cov- 
ered her  entirely,  through  which  her  slim  body 
was  scarcely  discernible.  M.  de  Sourbelles 
gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  and  took  her  hand 
beneath  the  veil. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "don't  let  us  stay  here!  I 
could  not  talk  before  her!  .  .  .  Come!  .  .  . 
Besides,  we  shall  be  close  by,  close  by." 

Then  opening  another  door  he  showed  me 
into  a  little  room  which  he  evidently  used  as  his 
study. 


184  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

"  Be  seated,"  he  said,  handing  me  a  chair 
"  I  will  tell  you.     ...     I  will  tell  you." 

And,  sometimes  seated  opposite  to  me,  his  arm 
resting  on  mine,  or  his  face  buried  in  his  hands ; 
sometimes  pacing  up  and  down,  or  interrupting 
himself  to  go  into  the  adjoining  room,  he  told 
me  in  a  broken  voice  the  secret  of  his  life,  in 
about  the  following  terms: 


CHAPTER  II. 

M.  DE  SOURBELLES'  LOVE  TRAGEDY, 

"Shall  I  relate  everything?  No,  the  details 
about  the  beginning  of  it  are  not  necessary. 
Moreover,  stories  of  this  kind  all  resemble  each 
other  to  start  with,  or,  at  least,  appear  to  re- 
semble each  other.  Ours,  though,  did  not  begin 
like  others,  that  is,  not  quite.  From  the  out- 
set there  was  in  our  case  something  sudden,  irre- 
sistible, fatal,  a  summer  storm  that  a  puff  of 
wind  prepares  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  and  which 
bursts  before  anyone  has  seen  it  coming. 

"I  was  in  garrison  in  a  little  town  in  the  De- 
partement  du  Nord  ....  Captain — captain  of 
cavalry.  I  was  bored.  It  w^as  not  of  my  own 
free  will  that  I  had  chosen  a  military  career,  for 
I  had  no  taste  for  it.  I  followed  my  destiny 
without  uselessly  rebelling,  though  not  without 
regretting  what  it  might  have  been  and  would 
not  be;  and  these  moments  of  regret  were  mel- 
ancholy. I  was  thirty-four  years  of  age.  Up 
to  that  time  I  had  lived  like  everybody  else.  I 
had  had  gallant  adventures  like  most  of  my  com- 
rades, and  mainly  of  the  same  order — facile, 
commonplace,  taken  up  without  effort,  dropped 
without  regret,  soon  forgotten.  No  love,  except 
in  my  youth,  one  of  those  little  sentimental  af- 
fairs that  one  imagines  one  will  never  get  over 

L185J 


1 86  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

and  which  leave  but  a  slight  remembrance 
tinged  with  ridicule.  Naturally  I  did  not  realize 
that  I  was  ignorant  of  what  love  was:  on  the 
contrary  I  imagined  that  I  had  loved  much,  suf- 
fered much,  that  I  had  had  my  share  of  exalta- 
tion and  happiness.  Mere  foolishness !  My  pas- 
sions, which  were  interrupted  by  every  change  of 
garrison,  for  which  I  would  not  have  made  the 
smallest  sacrifice,  which  afforded  me  a  little  medi- 
ocre pleasure  and  had  never  cost  me  a  tear — 
these  were  not  love :  I  know  it  now  well  enough. 

"In  consequence  of  some  administrative  changes 
the  sub-prefect  of  the  town  in  which  I  had  been 
stationed  for  several  months  was  transferred 
elsewhere.     His    successor's    name    was — I    will 

call   him   M.    H .     There  is  no  particular 

reason  why  I  should  not  tell  you  his  name,  as  our 
story  did  not  remain  secret.  I  prefer,  however, 
not  to  pronounce  it. 

"  The  arrival  and  installation  of  the  new  sub- 
perfect  were  quite  an  event  in  the  place,  espe- 
cially as  M.    H enjoyed  a  vague  literary 

notoriety,  having  published  a  few  books,  two  or 
three  novels,  some  historical  studies,  I  know  not 
what.  He  was  said  to  be  witty,  and  his  wife 
very  handsome.  It  was  thought  they  would  in- 
still a  little  animation  into  our  social  life  which 
was  utterly  lacking  in  brilliancy.  They  arrived 
with  the  advent  of  winter,  when  the  social  season 
was  just  beginning.  I  soon  met  them,  at  a  ball 
given  in  their  honor  by  a  family  that  I  knew. 


M.  de  Sojirhelles  Love  Tragedy.      187 

I  was  introduced  to  M.  H in  the  smoking- 
room.  He  displeased  me  to  the  point  of  irri- 
tation. He  had  a  weak,  cracked  voice  that  set 
my  teeth  on  edge.  He  spoke  Avith  volubility 
upon  politics,  literature,  the  fair  sex;  he  knew 
something  about  ever^-thing,  had  a  large  fund 
of  anecdotes  and  bons  mots,  and  was  self-com- 
placent in  the  extreme.  He  was  moreover  very 
amiable,  very  considerate  with  a  slight  obsequi- 
ousness; knew  how  to  interrupt  himself  to  listen 
wth  an  air  of  interest  assumed  with  perfect  art, 
to  the  remarks  of  a  few  notables — in  short  bore 
himself  as  a  tactful  man  who  is  entering  into 
strange  circles  \^dthout  knowing  just  what  his 
attitude  ought  to  be  but  who  is  determined  to 
make  himself  well  viewed. 

"I  do  not  know  how  it  came  about,  but  in  the 

course  of  the  evening  M.  H took  my  arm, 

and  we  strolled  off  like  a  pair  of  friends  towards 
the  wnnter  garden.  I  remember  perfectly  well 
that  he  was  talking  to  me  about  the  German  Em- 
peror whose  impulsive  character  occasioned  him 
uneasiness.  I  responded  in  monosyllables.  Sud- 
denly he  said : 

"  'Here  comes  my  wife.  Will  you  permit  me 
to  present  you  to  her?' 

"I  looked  at  Mme.  H ■  who  with  another 

woman  was  advancing  slowly  and  also  looking 
at  us.  I  was  dazzled,  dazzled  out  of  my  wits. 
Her  husband  presented  me.  We  exchanged  a 
few  insignificant  words  which  I  did  not  hear,  so 


1 88  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

troubled  was  I  by  the  sound  of  her  voice.     Then 

as  M.  H — ■  offered  his  arm  to  her  companion, 

I  mechanically  offered  mine  to  Mme,    H 

and  we  walked  through  the  salons. 

"When  I  quitted  her  wnth  a  bow,  and  drinking 
in  her  look,  we  already  belonged  to  each  other, 
although  we  had  exchanged  only  the  most  com- 
monplace words.  We  feared  both  of  us,  I  think, 
to  spoil  with  words  the  ecstasy  that  was  rising 
within  us;  perhaps,  too,  we  experienced  that 
vague  fear  of  each  other  one  feels  at  one's  destiny 
when  it  takes  shape  and  becomes  threatening. 
We  said  nothing  to  each  other,  even  our  eyes  re- 
pressed their  eloquence;  but  I  felt  a  sort  of  im- 
perceptible thrill  pass  through  her  arm  that 
touched  mine,  and  each  of  the  minutes  we  passed 
together  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  that  we  no 
longer  saw,  forged  more  strongly  the  chain  that 
linked  our  two  beings. 

"The  evening,  however,  advanced.     M.  H 

took  his  wife  away.  I  saw  her  as  she  went  off 
with  him  and  her  eyes  met  mine.  Oh!  how 
they  spoke!  How  they  expressed  the  mortal 
anguish  of  supreme  sentiment.  How  they  cried 
aloud  the  avowal  that  had  not  crossed  her  lips, 
how  I  heard  them,  how  I  understood  them !  It 
was  a  lightning  flash:  she  was  no  longer  there, 
I  remained  alone,  with  heaving  breaet,  happy, 
despairing,  inebriated,  mad — forced  however  to 
control  myself  and  to  hide  my  thoughts  which 
I  imagined  radiated  from  me.     I  endeavored  to 


M.  dc  Soiirbelles  Love  Tragedy.      189 

observe  the  faces  of  the  people  in  the  nearly- 
deserted  salons,  and  to  listen  to  their  talk.     That 

they  were  making  comments  upon  Mme.  H 

goes  without  saying.  I  thrilled  at  certain  phrases 
in  which  her  name  was  pronounced. 

"  '  She  is  wondrously  handsome,'  said  some- 
body. 

"I  was  filled  with  rage  against  the  stranger 
who  dared  to  admire  her.  A  voice,  however, 
replied : 

'"Yes,  she  is  handsome,  but  there  is  an  air  of 
coldness  about  her.' 

"This  stupid  restriction  irritated  me  still 
more.  It  evidently  expressed  the  general  im- 
pression, however,  for  somebody  added: 

'"An  icy  beauty!' 

"  Ah !  the  fools !  They  had  only  seen  her  with 
blind  eyes!  Whereas  I,  instantly,  at  the  first 
glance,  had  realized  that  beneath  this  studied 
severity  of  appearances  was  a  soul  of  fire.  She 
burned  me,  was  the  subject  of  all  my  thoughts, 
agitated  them,  stirred  them  and  whirled  them 
in  a  giddy  swarm.  I  ceased  to  listen  and  fled  to 
lose  myself  in  one  desire — to  see  her  again,  every- 
where, always! 

"Then  began  for  me  an  existence  of  anguish 
and  intoxication.  I  lived  a  multiplied  life,  hyp- 
notised by  a  sole  thought  which  never  left  me, 
which  absorbed  all  my  strength,  which  was  so 
intense  that  I  could  not  have  told  whether  it 
was  pain  or  joy.     It  was  always  as  at  the  end  of 


1 90  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

that  ball,  ths  briefest  minutes  of  which  I  passed 
my  time  in  evoking:  I  saw  but  her,  although 
she  was  no  longer  there,  I  thought  only  of  seeing 
her  again.  To  meet  her  again  however  a  great 
deal  of  ingenuity  was  required.  Nothing  is  easy 
in  small  towns.  In  ours  there  was  little  sociable 
life,  and  previously  I  had  scarcely  mixed  with 
it.  All  at  once  I  became  the  most  assiduous 
society-seeking  officer  in  the  garrison.  I  fre- 
quented all  the  houses  that  I  could  visit ;  I  went 
to  the  theatre  whenever  a  touring  company 
visited  the  town,  I  did  not  miss  one  of  the  very 
ordinary  concerts  that  were  given  twice  a  month. 
"Sometimes  I  caught  sight  of  her  at  the  back 
of  a  box  and  was  hardly  able  to  make  a  salute 
to  her  which  she  would  return  with  a  look  rather 
than  with  a  gesture ;  or  else,  hidden  in  the  recess 
of  some  drawing-room  window,  I  passed  inter- 
minable soirees  on  the  watch  until  the  lateness 
of  the  hour  precluded  further  hope  that  she 
would  appear;  but  sometimes  she  did  come,  and 
I  spoke  to  her,  heard  her  voice.  At  last  she 
invited  me  to  call  upon  her  on  her  reception  day. 
I  went.  Soon,  by  arriving  before  the  usual  hour 
— she,  I  felt  well,  was  expecting  me — I  managed 
to  snatch  a  few  minutes  alone  with  her.  But 
what  was  that?  At  each  meeting  my  love  in- 
creased; it  increased  at  each  combination  that 
brought  us  together,  at  each  word,  each  look 
we  exchanged;  it  increased  without  cease,  it  be- 


M.  dc  So7ir belles  Love  Tragedy.     191 

came  more  tyrannical,  more  exacting,  more  im- 
patient. 

"It  was  a  period  of  fever  in  which  I  had  hours 
of  madness,  but  which  was  not  prolonged.  There 
were  none  of  the  manosuvres  common  to  amor- 
ous intrigues,  no  bargain  bstween  us.  Our  first 
avowal  was  decisive.  For  my  part  I  did  not 
experience  the  least  internal  struggle,  the  least 
hesitation,    the   least    scruple.     It    was    without 

any  remorse  that  I  went  up  to  M.  H and 

shook  his  hand,  although  I  had  the  firm  inten- 
tion to  take  his  wife  away  from  him.  I  was 
calculating,  deceitful,  ruse  and  hypocritical, 
as  much  as  I  could  be  by  nature,  without  its 
costing   me   the   slightest    effort.     As   to    Mme. 

H who  fortunately  had  no  children,  I  do 

not  know  to  what  extent  the  ties  of  family,  of 
custom,  of  society,  of  established  affections,  of 
duty,  all  the  obstacles  which  sometimes  delay 
and  even  avert  the  fatal  issue  of  love,  weighed 
in  her  mind.  Women  always  have  more  virtue 
or  more  prejudices  than  men:  she  must  have 
engaged  in  many  struggles  that  I  knew  nothing 
about.  Yet  I  think  she  traversed  the  phase  of 
hesitation  as  rapidly  as  I  did,  and  that  she  loved 
me  as  I  loved  her,  that  is  to  say,  with  absolute- 
ness, not  admitting  that  anything  was  more 
sacred  or  stronger  than  this  love,  or  that  any- 
thing could  check  or  diminish  it.  She  responded 
to  my  first  appeal.  She  gave  herself  without 
beating  about  the  bush,  without  coquettishness, 


192  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

without  resistance,  out  of  the  pure  triumphant 
joy  of  belonging  to  him  she  loved  and  of  intoxi- 
cating him  with  her  being." 

M,  de  'Sourbelles  paused  for  a  moment.  He 
was  looking  back  at  the  past,  resuscitating  mem- 
ories that  his  words  evoked,  thinking  of  these 
things  of  long  ago,  which  he  perhaps  saw  in  a 
different  light  now  that  the  destiny  which  their 
sweetness  had  inaugurated  had  been  accom- 
plished. Then  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head two  or  three  times  and  continued: 

"Yes,  thus  it  was.     Yet  neither  was  corrupt 
nor  perverse.     She  had   never  loved   until   she 
knew   me,    never   desired   love,    never    dreamed 
that  she  could  deviate  from  the  straight  line  of 
her  life;  she  was  imbued  with  good  sentiments 
towards  her  husband  and  family,   with  respect 
for  the  social  laws,   fear  of   the   world's   judg- 
ments, and  incHned  to   all    that    was    pure  and 
good — in  fact  she  had  all  the  ideas,  all  the  opin- 
ions, all  the  beliefs,  all  the  interests  of  an  honest 
woman  ....   I    myself    was    fairly    scrupulous 
in  such  matters,  having  in  my  previous  liaisons 
sought   only  pleasure  and  distraction,  and  once 
upon    a   time   would   have   refused   to    sacrifice 
serious   and  respectable  interests  for   the   sake 
of  self -gratification.     On  two  occasions   I   even 
ceased   to  visit   the  homes  of   close  friends  of 
mine  for  fear  of  causing  trouble,  although  this 
step  was  a  great   sacrifice.     I   was  therefore — ■ 
I  can  render  myself  this  justice— an  honest  rnan, 


M.  dt  Soiirbellcs  Love  Tragedy,     193 

perhaps  even  with  more  delicacy  than  the  term 
usually  implies  when  the  senses  are  in  ques- 
tion. Nevertheless  I  do  not  believe  that  a  guilty 
liaison  was  ever  established  with  more  simplicity : 
it  was  as  though  we  had  always  been  destined 
the  one  for  the  other,  as  though  our  meeting 
had  in  an  instant  effaced  all  our  past,  wiped 
out  all  obstacles  between  our  two  lives.  I  only 
admired  my  mistress  the  more  for  it :  I  esteemed 
her  noble  and  generous.  I  told  myself  that  she 
confided  in  my  love  whole-heartedly,  that  she 
had  given  herself  to  me  without  reserve,  with- 
out the  petty  hesitations  or  paltry  calculation 
with  which  women  are  commonly  prone  to  com- 
plicate the  gift  of  their  bodies;  and  attached  to 
her  by  a  stronger  bond  than  any  sacred  tie  I 
swore  that  she  should  never  regret  her  confidence. 
"You  read  novels,  monsieur,  you  have  told 
me  so.  Very  well!  You  cannot  have  failed 
to  remark  that  authors  who  describe  liaisons  of 
the  same  kind  as  ours  are  apt  to  discover  in  them 
germs  of  contempt,  or  at  least  of  mistrust,  and 
occasionally  of  hatred,  as-  though  beings  whom 
love  unites  without  reference  to  the  social  laws 
must  perforce  be  enemies  or  accomplices.  Cer- 
tain of  our  moralists,  to  whom  authority  in  such 
matters  is  ascribed,  have  developed  the  thesis 
that  the  man  is  inevitably  inclined  to  distrust 
and  disdain  the  woman  who  has  given  herself 
to  him  in  defiance  of  her  duty,  because  he  appre- 
hends that  she  will  be  as  faithless  to  her  new 


194  ^^^^  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

troth  as  she  was  to  that  which  he  induced  her 
to  betray.  They  approve  it.  They  profess  to 
see  in  it  a  sort  of  justice,  a  moral,  and  what  not, 
a  guarantee  for  social  order,  a  peril  great  enough 
to  prevent  the  fault,  to  check  upon  the  down 
grade  hearts  that  look  ahead  into  the  future, 
greedy  of  the  happiness  they  withhold  .... 
Ah !  monsieur,  how  I  pity  the  poor  creatures  who 
know,  experience,  or  imagine  such  sentiments! 
For  their  souls  must  indeed  be  low  or  pusillani- 
mous, and  incapable  of  the  grand  devotions  and 
sublime  sacrifices  of  love!  ....  No,  no,  I  did 
not  doubt  her,  in  spite  of  the  deceit  into  which 
I  was  dragging  her.  I  could  read  her  heart  as 
an  open  book,  as  I  am  sure  she  could  read  mine. 
I  knew  that  she  was  pure,  in  spite  of  all,  through 
abnegation.  I  should  have  considered  myself 
the  worst  of  wretches  had  I  entertained  for  her 
aught  but  infinite  gratitude  and  a  tenderness 
without  limit. 

"We  were  imprudent,  careless  of  the  usual  ruses 
and  precautions.  We  feared  nothing  except 
that  we  should  not  see  enough  of  each  other, 
although  we  were  menaced  by  the  ever  wakeful 
inquisitiveness  of  a  small  town,  and  sure  that  it 
would  be  clear  sighted.  Moreover  dissimula- 
tion weighed  upon  both  of  us :  it  seemed  to  be  the 
sole  blemish  upon  our  love,  the  only  fault  we 
were  committing.  So  without  making  up  our 
minds  to  elope  or  to  do  any  of  those  conspicu- 
ous things   which   partake   of  the  reprehensible 


M.  de  Sourbellcs  Love  Tragedy.      195 

character  of  bravado  and  cruelty  we  waited 
quietly  for  what  was  bound  to  happen  in  due 
course,  accepting  in  advance  without  fear  all 
the  possible  consequences. 

"For  my  part  I  went  further:  I  hoped  with 
all  my  soul  that  the  discovery  of  our  relations 
would  be  made  at  once.  For  I  did  not  love  my 
love  for  the  furtive  rendezvous  she  gave  me,  for 
the  short  hours  that  I  stole  from  her  existence, 
for  her  hurried  kisses,  for  our  too  brief  moments 
of  intimacy:  I  loved  her  with  the  impatient  de- 
sire to  consecrate  my  whole  life  to  her,  with  that 
need  of  duration,  that  thirst  of  eternity,  which 
is  the  stamp  of  real  love,  in  the  forgetfulness  of 
all  that  was  not  she,  with  the  complete  devotion 
of  my  absorbed  being.  She  loved  me  with  equal 
ardor,  although  she  was  more  timid;  for  however 
great  their  love  may  be  women  have  an  uncon- 
querable fear  of  scandal.  She  did  not  escape 
this  instinct  of  her  sex.  She  trembled  when  she 
thought  of  the  hour  which  we  foresaw,  which  I 
desired,  which  she  desired,  too,  when  our  dear 
secret  discovered  would  rivet  us  the  one  to  the 
other.  When  that  hour  struck,  however,  she 
proved  herself  very  brave:  it  was  as  though  the 
real  danger  had  dispelled  her  fears,  as  though 
her  last  scruples  had  vanished  at  the  decisive 
moment.  I  can  still  see  her  as  she  entered  my 
room,  where  she  had  never  come  before,  pale,  but 
very  calm  and  saying  as  she  held  out  both  hands 
to  me: 


196  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

'"He  knows  everything!* 

"She  gazed  at  me,  confident,  awaiting  my 
answer. 

"'Very  well!'  I  said.     'Shall  we  leave?' 

"She  hesitated,  though  only  for  a  few  seconds, 
taking  the  final,  supreme  measure  of  her  sacri- 
fices, thrilled  with  a  last  thrill  in  face  of  the  un- 
known future  upon  which  we  were  about  to  enter. 

'"When  you  like,'  she  replied. 

"I  had  so  often  calculate!  what  would  have 
to  be  done  in  these  circumstances  that  in  a  flash 
my  m'nd  decided  upon  the  steps  to  arrange  my 
departure  from  regular  life  with  decency : 

'"I  shall  require  a  few  days  to  get  ready,'  I 
told  her. 

"S'le  was  not  surprised  at  this  restriction,  which 
she  knew  was  inevitable. 

"  'Very  well,'  she  said,  'but  I  shall  not  return 
horns.' 

"We  at  once  agreed  upon  the  place  where  she 
was  to  wait  for  me. 

"We  discussed  with  the  greatest  calmness  our 
plan  of  conduct,  the  lines  of  which  we  decided 
without  hesitation, as  though  it  were  the  simplest 
matter  in  the  world.  This  discussion,  however, 
led  me  to  ask  her  whether  she  suspected  the 
intentions  of  her  husband. 

"  'No,'  she  responded,  gazing  at  me  frankly. 
'I  presume  he  will  apply  for  a  divorce.  I  hope 
so.     What  else  can  he  do? ' 

"She  paused,  but  added  almost  immediately; 


M.  dt  Soiirbellcs  Love  Tragedy.      197 

*• '  Since  he  has  not  killed  me.' 

"'True,'  I  said,  'there  is  nothing  else  left  for 
him  to  do.' 

"In  reality  I  was  thinking  of  other  possible 
solutions,  but  I  wished  to  spare  her  the  fear  or 
emotion  the  mention  of  them  would  cause  her; 
I  therefore  pressed  her  as  much  as  I  could  to 
leave. 

"A  few  hours  later,  after  a  short  absence  I 
found  on  returning  home  M.  H 's  card. 

"It  was  most  unexpected,  unusual,  incorrect 
— the  only  incident  that  I  could  not  have  fore- 
seen. 

"  '  Still,'  thought  I,  '  a  man  in  his  position,  if 
there  be  any  sentiment  about  him,  has  a  right  to 
place  himself  above  the  habitual  code  that  regu- 
lates the  petty  differences  between  men:  he  has 
the  right  to  avenge  himself  as  he  deems  fit.' 

"I  therefore  at  once  sent  word  to  him  to  notify 
him  that  I  had  returned  and  held  myself  at  his 
disposal. 

"Half  an  hour  later  he  arrived. 

"I  supposed  that  he  had  come  with  the  inten- 
tion of  killing  me,  ^.nd  I  was  ready  to  defend 
myself,  I  assure  you,  for  life  was  dear  to  me.  I 
had  only  to  look  at  him  to  understand  that  I  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  him.  He  was  a  changed 
man,  ravaged,  and  as  it  were  ennobled,  by  an  im- 
mense grief. 

Never  would  I  have  believed  that  his  insipid 
face  could  express  such  anguish  nor  tha,t  there 


198  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

could  be  such  a  faculty  for  suffering  in  the  insig- 
nificant functionary  who  only  the  previous  day 
was  fluttering  and  gossiping  about  the  drawing- 
rooms  of  the  town.  I  was  expecting  to  hate  him : 
I  pitied  him.  Yes,  he  inspired  me  wdth  profound 
pity,  with  that  almost  physical  pity  one  feels 
in  presence  of  the  wounded  and  the  dying.  I 
would  have  liked  to  express  my  compassion  for 
him,  to  show  him  I  know  not  what  bizarre  sym- 
pathy.    But  we  were  enemies. 

' '  I  had  risen  when  he  entered.  I  handed  him 
a  chair.  He  refused  it  with  a  shake  of  the  head, 
then  dropped  into  it.  He  was  panting.  His 
hands  twisted  and  stiffened  upon  his  knees.  Two 
or  three  times  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but 
no  words  came.  He  avoided  looking  at  me.  At 
length,  in  a  smothered  voice,  he  murmured: 

"  '  I  have  the  right  to  kill  you.' 

"In  his  crushed  condition  this  menace  was 
almost  ridiculous,  I  assure  you,  therefore  I 
did  not  take  it  up.  « 

"  '  But  fear  nothing,'  he  continued. 

"At  this  word  I  could  not  repress  a  gesture, 
which  he  checked  with  a  sign  of  his  hand,  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulder,  and  even  more  with  a  look — 
with  an  undefinable  look,  a  look  that  will  always 
haunt  me. 

"  'You  do  not  understand  me,'  he  explained. 
'I  know  very  well  that  ycu  are  not  afraid.  No; 
what  I  mean  is  that  even  'hough  I  have  the  right 
to  kill  you  I  shall  never  be  an  assassin.' 


M.  dc  Soiirbellcs  Love  Tragedy.      199 

"He  interrupted  himself  to  repeat  two  or  three 
times  these  mysterious  words,  which  no  doubt 
expressed  long  reflection  that  I  could  not  know 
an5rthing  about : 

"  'Besides  ,who  knows  ?  .  .  .  .  Does  one  ever 
know  ?' 

"Then  there  was  an  interval  of  silence.  He 
was  following  his  thought,  suddenly  distracted 
from  the  present,  serious  as  it  was,  by  some- 
thing still  more  serious.  I  was  a  prey  to  an  in- 
describable uneasiness.  How  I  would  have  pre- 
ferred an  act  of  violence  to  this  grief,  which  was 
so  profound  that  it  thought  neither  of  bearing 
up  nor  of  hiding  itself,  but  overflowed  before 
me  who  had  caused  it,  as  it  might  have  done  be- 
fore a  friend ! 

"  'Nevertheless,'  he  finally  went  on,  the  world 
cannot  hold  both  of  us.  That  is  your  opinion 
also,  I  presume  ?' 

"I  nodded  affirmatively. 

"'Therefore,'  he  continued,  '  we  must  fight, 
fight  to  the  death !' 

"Again  he  was  transformed.  He  was  resolute 
and  energetic,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  hate 
in  his  eyes.  I  preferred  to  see  him  thus.  My 
pity  vanished.  I  was  face  to  face  with  a  real 
enemy. 

"'When  you  like,  how  you  like,'  I  said. 

"  'Good,'  he  exclaimed  as  though  relieved, 
'  very  good !     I  wished  to  see  you  although  it  is 


200  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

not  the  ragular  thing  ....  You  know  .... 
So  that  we  could  understand  each  other  .... 
before  the  seconds  ....  Seconds  always  tr}' 
to  dimmish  the  risk  of  danger:  what  we  must  do 
is  to  increase  it,  on  the  contrary!  ....  We 
must  impose  our  common  will  upon  our  seconds 
....  Can  you  shoot?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  '  So  much  the  better.  So  can  I.  Well  at 
fifteen  paces,  with  aim  ....  until  one  of  us  is 
unable  to  fire  any  more.     Does  that  suit  you  ?' 

"  '  Perfectly.' 

"  'I  will  manage  not  to  have  a  doctor;  you  do  the 
same  ....     They  would  stop  us,  perhaps.' 

"I  had  some  difficulty  in  making  him  under- 
stand that  we  could  never  find  seconds  who 
would  consent  to  let  us  fight  without  a  doctor 
being  present.     He  kept  repeating: 

"  'But  in  the  army?' 

"For  a  minute  or  two  we  discussed  this  ques- 
tion calmly,  without  violence,  like  persons  sep- 
arated only  by  a  futile  incident  and  anxious  to 
agree.     He  gave  way  at  last. 

" 'So  be  it!'  he  said.  'But  between  ourselves 
it  is  well  understood  that  we  stop  only  in  the  last 
extremity.  One  of  us  is  in  the  way — in  the 
way ! 

"Then,  passing  to  another  order  of  ideas,  he 
began : 

"'As  to  the  pretext  for  the  encounter ' 


M.  de  SoiLvbellcs^  Love  Ti^agedy.     20  r 

"He  considered  a  moment,  then  shrugging  his 
shoulders  with  a  gesture  of  utter  indifference, 
concluded : 

"  'Well,  there  is  no  need  for  a  pretext  .... 
After  it  is  over  everybody  will  know  all  about 
it  ....   So  what  does  it  matter?' 

"He  rose,  stronger,  calmer,  restored,  as  though 
this  prospect  of  blood  consoled  him. 

"  'We are  thoroughly  agreed  upon  all  points?' 
he  queried  again  at  the  door. 

"'Thoroughly  agreed,'  I  replied. 

"And  he  departed. 

"The  encounter  took  place  the  next  day  on 
the  Belgian  frontier,  under  the  conditions  decided 
between   us. 

"I  was  very  calm,  perfectly  resolute,  my  con- 
science as  easy  as  it  would  have  been  on  the  eve 
of  a  battle  in  which  one  kills  or  dies  to  do  his 
duty.  The  life  of  this  man,  whom  I  had  so 
terribly  wronged  and  who  had  just  spoken  to  me 
with  a  generosity  I  could  not  mistake,  seemed 
to  me  to  be  totally  insignificant.  My  own,  too, 
for  that  matter.  I  knew  very  well  that  if  the 
fortune  of  arms  turned  against  me  my  love  would 
not  survive  me,  and  as  I  cared  for  nothing  on 
earth  but  her,  I  was  ready  to  die.  But  I  was 
resolved  to  defend  myself  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  that  is  to  say,  to  do  my  best  to  kill  M. 

H ,    who  stood   between   her  and  me.     I 

repeat :  I  was  indifferent  alike  to  life  and  death, 


202  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

since  I  knew  that  she  was  mine  for  death  as  for 
life.  The  only  sadness  I  felt  was  at  not  seeing 
her,  at  having  to  pass  away  from  her  the  hours 
which  perhaps  were  to  be  my  last." 


Again  M.  de  Sourbelles  stopped  to  question 
me. 

"Maybe  you  think  me  abominable?"  he  said. 
"If  that  be  so  it  is  because  you  have  never  loved! 
When  one  loves,  all  that  is  not  love  is  effaced 
....  And  then,  is  it  our  fault  if  life  has  absurd 
exieencies,  if  laws  and  customs  are  in  flagrant 
contradiction  with  nature?  I  do  not  feel  the 
least  necessity  for  pleading  extenuating  circum- 
stances in  my  favor,  I  assure  you.  Was  it  not 
revolting  that  this  woman  shotild  be  shackled 
for  life  to  a  man  she  did  not  love,  and  that  I 
could  have  her  only  secretly,  shamefully,  I  who 
adored  her?" 

It  will  be  understood  that  this  was  not  the 
moment  to  argue  about  my  interlocutor's  theories. 
And  yet  he  gazed  at  me  as  though  his  conscience, 
aroused  perhaps  after  being  long  dormant, 
needed  a  word  to  quiet  or  absolve  it.  But  a 
man  when  he  is  of  calm  mind  is  by  instinct  the 
defender  of  established  morals  and  of  universally 
recognized  institutions:  when  one  is  in  a  normal 
condition  it  is  difficult  to  understand  the  views 
and  excited  condition  of  those  who  have  ceased 
to  respect    these  things;  one  regards  such  per- 


AT.  de  Sou7^belles  Love  Tragedy.     203 

sons  as  dangerous  and  feels  rather  like  taking 
refuge  from  them.  Although  I  greatly  pitied 
the  man  who  was  struggling  before  me  it  was 
impossible  to  agree  with  him.  I  therefore  an- 
swered evasively : 

"There  are  times,  in  effect,  when  one  sees 
things  in  a  special  light." 

He  looked  at  me  as  though  he  sought  in  my 
eyes  the  real  sense  of  these  vague  words,  under- 
stood that  it  was  not  that  of  approval,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Notwithstanding  all  that  followed,"  he  said, 
"I  have  not  changed  my  point  of  view.  No 
doubt  I  have  regretted  the  fate  of  this  gallant 
man,  and  have  deplored  the  fact  that  he  was  my 
victim  ....  But  I  have  never  had  any  remorse 
— never.     And  I  never  shall  have  any." 

His  mournful  attitude  belied  his  words. 

"  Seeing  that  I  am  here,"  he  continued,  as  if 
resuming  his   narration,  "  I  need    scarcely  say 

what  the  issue  of  the  combat  was.     M.  H 

fired  first ;  his  ball  grazed  my  neck.  I  returned 
the  fire  deliberately  and  shot  him  dead." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  again.  I  had  not 
a  word  to  say.  He  rose  and  went  into  the  next 
room,  doubtless  to  ask  of  the  dead  woman  whose 
lips  were  for  ever  dumb  the  words  of  comfort 
that  she  alone  perhaps  could  have  uttered.  He 
remained  a  few  minutes  by  her,  returned,  and 
paced  two  or  three  times  around  the  little  room 
twisting  his  handkerchief  in  his  nervous  fingers 


2o4      '      "TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

as  he  did  so.  His  emotion  was  extreme.  He 
manao-ed  however  to  dominate  it,  reseated  him- 
self  with  an  effort  and  recommenced  in  a 
smothered  voice  that  gradually  became  firmer: 

"  A  few  hours  later  I  had  rejoined  my  love. 

"  She  was  far  from  expecting  such  a  denoue- 
ment for  I  think  she  little  knew  her  husband. 
She  had  always  considered  him  to  be  a  man  of 
pacific  disposition,  prudent,  and  little  subject  to 
dangerous  impulses,  and  she  had  never  suspected 
that  he  loved  her.  I  did  not  tell  her  about  our 
interview.     I  allowed  her  to   suppose   that   M. 

H had  given  way  to  an  impulse   due   to 

amour-propre  rather  than  to  love Alas! 

we  could  not  tell  each  other  everything !  .  .  .  . 
She  also  did  not  tell  me  all.  I  saw  passing  in  her 
large  terrified  eyes  a  whole  world  of  thoughts, 
but  she  did  not  give  expression  to  them.  I 
know  not  whether  she  was  stricken  in  her  heart 
or  in  her  conscience,  whether  old  memories 
thrilled  within  her,  whether  a  secret  voice  was 
reproaching  her  cruelly  for  the  blood  that  had 
just  been  shed.  I  can  believe,  I  have  reason  to 
believe,  that  she  suffered  even  more  than  I  (M. 
de  Sourbelles  did  not  notice  that  he  was  con- 
tradicting himself),  in  her  inmost  heart,  from  the 
irremediable  act  that  delivered  us  to  each  other, 
from  that  sort  of  comphcity  in— in  crime,  to 
call  things  by  their  conventional  name — which 
henceforward  formed  the  most  sacred  of  bonds 
between  us.     But  she  did  not  say  so :  her  habitual 


M.  de  So7L7'helles  Love  Tragedy.      205 

impenetrability  served  her  rnarvellously,  as  did 
also  her  force  of  character  which  I  was  to  learn 
to  know.  I  suppose  she  accepted  the  accom- 
plished act  with  the  energetic  serenity  that 
vigorous  natures  generally  manifest  in  face  of 
the  irreparable.  However  this  may  be,  never 
did  she  utter  one  word  that  could  give  me 
ground  for  suspecting  that  the  tragic  event  has 
cast  a  shadow  upon  her  conscience,  and  if  she 
did  suffer  she  was  heroic  enough  to  suffer  in 
silence. 

"  You  know  the  world,  monsieur;  you  know 
that  it  is  fvill  of  indulgence  for  compromises,  for 
semi-faults,  for  situations  in  which  there  is  noth- 
ing but  cowardice,  whereas  it  is  pitiless  towards 
those  who  break  its  moulds  and  cut  loose  from 
its  hypocrisies.  However  we  had  neither  the 
illusion  that  we  could,  nor  the  desire  to,  become 
reconciled  to  it  one  day,  and  we  did  not  for  a 
minute  dream  of  imploring  its  pardon.  We 
knew  well  that  between  us  and  the  world  there 
was  something  more  insurmountable  than  any 
barrier.  We  realized  that  we  were  irrevocably 
separated  from  it,  that  our  punishment  and  our 
reward  were  absolute  isolation,  an  isolation  in 
which  we  should  be  all  in  all  to  each  other,  in 
which  we  could  have  no  other  hope,  no  other  joy, 
no  other  ambition,  no  other  aim,  in  a  word,  no 
other  reason  for  being  than  our  love.  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  proud  of  having  understood  this 
at  once,  without  experiencing  the  least  appre- 


?o6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

hension  at  the  terrible  burden  that  we  had  to 
bear  together,  without  regretting  all  that  was 
behind  me — family,  friends  and  career  ?  Posi- 
tively. It  seemed  to  me  that  my  soul  had 
expanded,  that  I  had  raised  myself  above  life, 
that  I  was  breathing  a  new,  a  free  air.  The 
earth  now  seemed  to  us  to  be  but  a  scene  of 
which  we  filled  the  foreground,  while  in  the 
background  glided  invisible  supernumeraries. 

"  I  often  thought  then,  monsieur,  of  a  scene 
in  some  comedy  whose  title  I  do  not  remember, 
in  which  an  ingenious  moralist  has  very  wittily 
depicted  the  fear,  ennui,  anticipated  lassitude 
and  especially  the  cowardice  of  a  man  whose 
ambition  had  been  to  dishonor  a  woman  vulgarly, 
in  a  conventional  manner,  without  breaking 
away  from  anything,  and  to  whom  that  woman 
— a  poor  minded  woman,  I  admit — came  one  fine 
day  and  offered  herself  wholly,  for  life.  This 
situation,  which  was  very  human,  as  they  say, 
made  me  laugh  like  everyone  else  and  murmur: 
'  How  true  to  life  that  is !'  I  felt  that  I  could  no 
longer  even  have  smiled  at  it,  that  the  only  senti- 
ment it  would  have  aroused  in  me  would  have 
been  a  gentle  commiseration  for  these  two  paltry, 
insipid  souls,  too  puny  for  their  destiny.  I 
feared  nothing.  The  future  opened  before  me 
in  a  sort  of  splendor.  I  had  entered  into  grand 
eternal  love,  and  was  wildly  happy  to  feel  myself 
walled  therein,  so  to  speak,  with  no  chance  of 
escape  from  it. 


M.  de  Sourbellcs  Love  Tj-agedy.      207 

**  INIayts  the  description  of  my  sentiments  is 
not  particularly  interesting  to  yoti  ?  Yon  would 
like  to  know  what  hers  was,  no  doubt  ?  .  .  .  Ah! 
that  is  the  question !  .  .  .  .  Like  all  true  women 
she  kept  the  mystery  to  herself:  that,  perhaps, 
is  why  she  inspired  me  with  such  love.  .  .  .  And 
then,  for  me  to  be  able  to  know  her  some  day, 
for  me  to  be  able  to  solve  the  delicious  enigma 
that  her  words,  her  silences,  her  gaze,  her 
caresses  always  were,  other  events  than  those 
which  followed  would  have  been  necessary. 
Understand  me  well,  I  beg:  we  adored  each 
other;  but  love  had  come  so  quickly,  so  violently, 
so  blindly,  that  it  had  preceded  intimacy.  We 
were  still  unknown  ground  to  each  other.  For 
my  part  I  who  had  loved  her  without  knowing 
her,  continued  in  ignorance  of  her.  I  did  not 
suffer  from  this  then :  my  love  excluded  curiosity. 
But  now  I  suffer  that  I  never  knew  her.  I  shall 
suffer  always." 


Here  ensued  one  of  those  feverish  pauses  by 
which  M.  de  Sourbelles's  narration  was  broken. 
He  again  returned  to  the  dead  woman's  side. 
Although  his  absence  lasted  several  minutes  his 
singular  preoccupation  was  not  interrupted,  for 
on  returning  he  repeated: 

"  I  was  never  to  know  her,  never !  .  .  .  .  For 
now  all  becomes  confounded  and  confused ;  now 
comes  the  dreadful  shock,  hours  of  despair  worse 


2o8  The  Sac7'-ijice  of  Silence. 

than  death,  the  mere  remembrance  of  which  is 
a  lance  that  pierces  me,  a  fire  that  burns  me, 
an  unsolaceable  grief  in  which  also  is  shame,  yes, 
the  shame  of  being  a  man,  of  having  a  weak  and 
cowardly  heart,  a  heart  of  mud. 

"  We  had  to  leave  the  town,  did  we  not  ? 
Well,  the  events  I  have  recounted  took  place  in 
the  autumn.  Where  should  we  go  to  pass  the 
beginning  of  the  winter  ?  We  sought  for  skies 
that  would  suit  us,  and  fixed  upon  a  place  in 
Italy,  in  the  region  of  the  lakes.  We  wanted  to 
find  a  quiet,  pretty  spot  favorable  to  forgetful- 
ness  and  to  happiness,  a  place  sufficiently  out  of 
the  way  for  us  to  be  alone  without  being  embar- 
rassed by  our  isolation,  away  from  the  hostile 
crowd  and  from  hotels,  one  of  those  places  which 
kindly  nature  seems  to  have  garnished  expressly 
for  certain  conditions  of  mind.  We  knew  of 
none  which  at  that  season  of  the  year  could 
better  respond  to  our  aspirations. 

"  In  the  pink  villa  which  we  had  hired  on  the 
Italian  shore  of  Lake  Lugano  days  passed,  days 
of  infinite  briefness.  The  waves,  green  with  the 
reflection  of  the  chestnut  woods,  murmured 
around  the  walls  of  our  terrace  that  was  odorous 
with  the  perfume  of  the  olca  fragrans.  The 
little  valleys  that  rose  in  gentle  slopes  from  the 
lake  towards  the  mountains  were  still  carpeted 
with  cyclamens.  We  thought  of  nothing.  The 
past  existed  no  more  for  us  than  did  the  rest 
of  the  world :  the  same  mountains  which  barred 


M.  de  Soitrbclles  Love  Tragedy.      209 

our  horizon  also  shut  out  our  recollections. 
'  When  one  has  lived  such  days  as  these,'  we 
said  sometimes  in  those  hours  when  we  sought  to 
fathom  the  unknown  future,  '  one  has  realised 
one's  life,  and  it  does  not  matter  what  may  hap- 
pen.' I  believed  that,  monsieur.  Then  I  fancied 
that  one  could  lay  in  a  store  of  happiness,  as  one 
saves  money  for  one's  old  age.  Alas!  I  have 
since  learned  that  past  happiness  cannot  com- 
pensate for  present  sorrow.  I  now  know  that 
the  charm  of  the  happiest  hour  evaporates  in 
bitterness  and  desolation.  My  present  suffer- 
ing is  as  profound  as  my  happiness  was  complete. 
But  it  will  last  longer  ....  It  will  last  .... 
It  will  last." 

A  sob  that  he  could  not  repress  interrupted 
M.  de  Sourbelles.  It  took  him  a  minute  or  two 
to  control  himself.     Then  he  continued: 

*'  We  lived  alone  in  that  little  villa.  A  woman 
of  the  district  kept  the  house  in  order  and  pre- 
pared our  meals,  which  were  always  extremely 
frugal.  The  little  details  of  housekeeping  that 
we  had  to  look  after  amused  us  greatly.  We 
were  enchanted  with  everything.  It  was  an 
idyll.  There  is  at  the  bottom  of  our  nature  a 
childish  playfulness  that  happiness  brings  out. 
How  astonished  would  they  have  been,  those 
who  thought  they  knew  my  love  and  judged  her 
cold,  indifferent,  or  too  serious — how  astonished 
would  they  have  been  could  they  have  seen  her 
playing  at  housekeeping,  laughing  gaily  at    her 


2IO  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

own  awkwardness  and  rejoicing  at  her  emanci- 
pation from  the  manners  and  customs  of  society- 
women  !  As  for  mc,  I  congratulated  myself,  as 
though  upon  a  supreme  victory,  at  having  awak- 
ened the  child  in  her  nature,  the  delicious  child, 
wilful  and  tender,  sweet  and  fantastic,  impulsive, 
full  of  surprises,  ardent,  made  up  of  contrasts  as 
real  children  are,  that  none  save  myself  would 
ever  know. 

"One  evening,  after  we  had  lingered  on  the 
terrace  where  the  breeze  was  somewhat  chilly — 
she  was  clad  in  a  light  dress,  a  dress  of  gauze, 
and  had  thrown  a  mantilla  over  her  head — we 
thought  we  would  take  some  tea.  She  was 
always  amused  when  we  had  to  serve  ourselves. 
Comparing  ourselves  to  children  playing  at  get- 
ting dinner  ready,  we  laughed  heartily. 

" '  Shall  we  find  what  we  require  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  We  will  see,'  she  replied. 

"  She  fetched  the  tea,  the  sugar  and  a  spirit 

lamp.     As  she  was  preparing  it '* 

M.  de  Sourbelles'  voice  sank  almost  to  a 
whisper,  as  though  it  required  an  immense  effort 
on  his  part  to  continue,  and  I  could  scarcely 
understand  the  few  brief,  broken  sentences  in 
which  he  summarized  the  accident : 

"  '  Suddenly  the  lamp  exploded  .  .  .  .  T  saw 
her  enveloped  in  flames  ....  I  rushed  to  her 
and  wrapped  a  blanket  round  her  ....  She 
had  not  uttered  a  cry  ....  She  only  looked  at 
me  with  despairing  eyes  ....   She  was  covered 


M.  dc  Sour  be  lies*  Love  Tragedy.     2 1 1 

with  horrible  burns  ....  Her  head,  her  face, 
her  body  ....  all  over  ....  all  over  .... 
Oh!  my  God!" 


A  long  silence  ensued.  M.  de  Sourbelles 
leaned  and  writhed  upon  one  of  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands;  he  was 
doubtless  living  over  again  the  details  of  the 
frightful  scene ;  I  could  hear  his  panting  breath 
punctuating  his  recollections. 

" '  Perhaps  you  know  what  to  do  in  such  a 
case  ?"  he  continued  at  length.  "  I  did  not  .... 
I  did  what  I  could  ....  Think  of  it !  I  had  to 
leave  her  alone  for  awhile  ....  Yes,  alone 
....  w^hile  I  sought  help  ....  I  had  to  wake 
up  the  neighbors,  w^ho  did  not  understand  me, 
try  to  explain  to  them  as  they  leaned  out  of  their 
windows  ....  They  went  for  a  doctor,  but  it 
was  a  long  w-ay  off,  at  Lugano  ....  Oh !  in 
what  agony  the  hours  dragged  on !  .  ...  She 
was  suffering  horribly,  but  uttered  no  complaint, 
silent  as  she  had  always  been  at  grave  and  criti- 
cal moments,  all  her  pain  in  her  eyes.  They 
followed  me  ceaselessly,  those  eyes ;  whenever  I 
moved  I  could  feel  them  fixed  upon  me;  I 
divined  their  mute  questions  ....  I  turned 
around  her,  not  daring  to  touch  her  poor  peeled 
flesh  ....  When  she  asked  for  anything  I  tried 
to  get  it  for  her ;  that  was  all  I  could  do.     At  last 


2 1 2  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 

I  heard  the  doctor's  carriage  coming  along  the 
road.  He  had  brought  the  necessary  bandages 
and  things.  He  examined  her,  attended  to  her, 
and  reassured  me. 

'"It  is  horribly  painful,'  he  said,  '  but  there 
is  no  danger:  she  will  recover.' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  heavens  became 
illumined,  for  I  had  thought  that  she  was  lost. 

"  Her  recovery  was  slow,  but  some  of  the 
burns  had  penetrated  deeply.  .  .  .  She  lived, 
however.  .  .  .  The  fever  left  her.  .  .  .  Her 
poor  ravaged  body  restored  itself  by  degrees. 
A  few  days  were  filled  with  the  usual  sweetness 
of  convalescence.  .  .  .  But  when  she  saw  her- 
self. .  .  .  Oh !  when  she  saw  herself  in  the 
hand  mirror  that  could  not  be  refused !  Profit- 
ing by  one  of  the  short  minutes  that  I  v/as  not 
there,  she  asked  the  Sister  of  Charity  who  was 
watching  beside  her  to  give  it  to  her.  .  .  . 
When  I  returned  she  called  me  to  her.  The 
shutters  were  closed,  the  curtains  drawn,  and  as 
the  latter  were  thin,  shawls  had  been  pinned  to 
them  to  shut  out  the  light.  Finding  the  room 
in  darkness  I  at  once  guessed  what  had  occurred. 
She  took  my  hand,  and  murmured : 

"  '  Go  away  from  here !  Leave  me !  I  will 
not  have  you  see  me  again !' 

"  I  burst  into  tears,  and  covered  with  kisses 
her  hand  which  she  tried  to  withdraw.  She  her- 
self did  not  cry.  Summoning  all  her  energy  she 
^ent  on  firmly: 


M.  de  Sourbelles  Love  Tragedy.      1 1 


o 


"  '  No,  no,  I  will  not  have  you  love  me.  You 
must  not  love  me  any  longer!' 

"  I  said  all  that  I  could  say.  I  swore  that  my 
love  for  her  was  eternal,  that  nothing  could 
diminish  it,  that  m.y  life  was  hers  as  hers  was 
mine,  and — I  know  not  what.  And  as  I  feared 
that  in  her  despair  she  might  do  something  des- 
perate, I  declared  that  I  would  not  leave  her  for 
an  instant  until  she  had  solemnly  promised  me 
not  to  entertain  such  wild  thoughts.  She  yielded 
at  last,  and  promised,  but  oh !  with  what  sad- 
ness I 

"  '  We  will  stay  together,  since  you  wish  it,'  she 
said.  '  Maybe  you  would  be  still  more  unhappy 
were  we  to  separate.  .  .  .  But  when  you  wish 
to  leave  me  remember  that  you  are  free !' 

"  Free!  If  you  knew,  monsieur,  how  I  felt 
myself  bound  to  her  by  a  bond  stronger  than  any 
that  was  ever  invented  by  man,  than  by  any  sol- 
emn oath,  any  sacrament,  any  sacred  word! 
....  I  belonged  to  her  by  the  strength  of  the 
pity  I  felt  for  her  and  by  something  more ;  I  saw 
her  as  I  loved  her,  with  her  beauty  still  vividly 
before  my  eyes.  I  rebelled  at  the  very  idea 
that  a  stupid  accident  could  threaten  the  eternal 
character  of  my  love.  I  flattered  myself  also 
with  the  hope  of  a  complete  cure. 

*'  Naturally,  we  could  not  think  of  remaining 
in  a  spot  where  we  had  suffered  so  much:  I 
could  not  bear  the  serene  gaiety  of  the  surround- 
ing view.     We  left  as  soon  as  the  doctor  would 


2 1 4  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

allow  her  to  travel.  Our  desire  was  to  find  some 
place  where  we  could  abide  without  ever  seeing 
a  face  we  knew.  Such  a  place  could  scarcely  be 
found  in  Italy.  There  is  not  one  of  its  little 
towns  that  is  not  overrun  by  tourists.  It  af- 
forded us  hospitality  till  the  end  of  the  winter, 
however.  Then,  weary  of  wandering  from 
place  to  place,  we  resumed  consideration  of  our 
plan  for  a  permanent  residence.  I  argued  that 
there  was  less  chance  of  meeting  French  people 
in  Germany  than  anywhere  else.  Now,  why  did 
we  select  Weimar  ?  I  have  not  any  idea.  We 
came  here  by  chance,  the  place  pleased  us  be- 
cause of  its  fine  shady  trees,  we  found  it  less 
Prussian  than  the  other  towns,  the  souvenirs  of 
Goethe  interested  us,  and  thus  our  choice  was 
made." 

This  part  of  his  narration  had  cost  M.  de  Sour- 
belles  a  visible  effort.  He  paused  an  instant, 
gazed  at  me,  made  a  vague  gesture  and  contin- 
ued: 

"  Up  to  this  point,  monsieur,  I  have  been  able 
to  recount  our  history  in  its  exact  details.  Now 
I  hardly  know  how  to  go  on.  There  are  no  more 
incidents,  nothing  further  occurred.  We  were 
shut  up  in  this  house.  We  lived  alone  without 
hearing  the  sound  of  any  other  voices  than  our 
own  and  those  of  our  serA'-ants,  kno%\4ng  nothing 
about  those  who  surrounded  us,  nor  of  those  we 
had  quitted,  nor  of  the  world.  Whatever  took 
place  was  only  in  the  tenebrousness  of  our  in- 


M.  de  Sourbclles  Love  Tragedy.      215 

tnost  selves,  and  we  never  disclosed  it.  We  were 
guarded  in  our  words,  we  weighed  their  sense 
and  calculated  their  impression.  Each  wondered 
what  the  other  was  thinking.  We  had  no  confi- 
dant save  our  silence,  which  was  eloquent  and 
which  seemed  to  speak  tons.  .  .  .  Alas!  there 
was  something  terrible  between  us — love  that 
was  dying,  not  naturally,  gradually  losing  its  fer- 
vor and  ardor,  becoming  attenuated  into  a  pure 
affection,  a  holy  tenderness,  but  a  violent  death, 
in  all  its  vigor,  rebelhously  resisting  to  the  last, 
even  as  a  man  cut  down  in  the  fullness  of  his 
l"fe,  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  completest  happi- 
ness it  can  offer,  and  who  clings  to  it  with  all 
the  strength  of  despair. 

"Oh!  wretches  that  we  are!  ....  Weak, 
weak,  mean  of  heart,  halt  of  soul!  We  uplift 
ourselves  with  all  our  desire  tow^ards  the  infinite 
of  sentiment,  towards  that  supernatural  world 
where  love  blooms  in  the  absolute,  sheltered 
from  the  vicissitudes  of  our  life.  Vain  efforts! 
We  are  dependent  upon  what  we  are,  upon  our 
sens3S,  upon  our  external  being,  upon  what  is 
most  lamentable  in  us! 

"  As  long  as  she  suffered  and  during  her  long 
convalescence  I  thought  only  of  tending  her,  of 
saving  her,  of  curing  her.  But  when  our  regu- 
lar course  of  life  was  resumed  I  could  not  help 
but  see  that  she  was  no  longer  the  same.  She 
was  ugly,  with  that  ugliness  of  a  spoiled,  scarred 
body,  with  that  iigliness  which  is  the  more — oh! 


2i6  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

I  will  not  say  the  word — which  is  the  more 
painful,  becaiise  it  is  not  natural,  which  is  an  af- 
front to  our  weakness.  She  was  ugly,  and  the 
accident  that  had  destroyed  her  beauty  had  not 
at  the  same  time  affected  her  youthfulness  nor 
her  power  to  love. 

"  And  I  ?   . 

"  Oh !  I  was  full  of  tenderness,  pity,  affection 
and  devotion.  I  experienced  towards  her  those 
sentiments  that  beauty  and  nobleness  of  soul  can 
inspire.  But  it  was  love  no  longer — love  had 
gone,  had  ceased  to  exist.  I  knew  how  she  would 
suffer  if  she  succeeded  in  reading  my  heart :  what 
sentiments  can  replace  love  for  women  who  still 
love  ?  .  .  .  And  I  lied  with  my  words,  with  my 
looks,  with  my  kisses;  I  played  the  comedy  of 
love  as  best  I  could,  with  all  my  despair,  with  all 
the  wild  need  I  felt  of  loving  in  spite  of  myself 
until  death !  How  can  I  express  it  ?  I  know  not. 
There  are  no  phrases  to  express  such  a  state,  im- 
mobile, a  sort  of  status  quo  in  which  neverthe- 
less one  loses  ground  every  minute,  for  where  is 
the  woman  who  is  not. soon  able  to  see  through 
us  ?  We  cannot  deceive  them  about  our  hearts, 
except  when  they  are  content  to  be  deceived. 
This  was  not  the  case.  She  wanted  to  know; 
she  had  that  thirst  for  cruel  truth  that  was  in  her 
nature,  and  which  moreover  had  always  inspired 
her  with  a  distrust  that  triumphant  love  alone 
had  been  able  to  overcome." 

M.  de  Sourbelles  stopped.     His  animation  had 


M.  dc  Sourbrllcs  Love  Tra(j[edy       ll'; 

gTadiially  increased  to  excitement.    When  he  be- 
came calmer  he  resumed: 

"  I  need  hardly  say  that  she  never  was  here 
what  she  had  been  in  Italy.  There  were  no  more 
outbursts  of  that  joyous  childishness  which  had 
enchanted  me  in  our  little  pink  house,  no  more 
gaiety,  no  more  abandon.  She  had  become  the 
silent  one  of  former  days.  I  felt  that  she  could 
read  me  in  spite  of  myself,  that  she  was  not  be- 
ing duped,  that  I  could  not  deceive  her.  .  .  .  Nov^', 
I  shall  have  no  other  thought  than  to  recall  her 
words,  her  gestures,  her  silences,  to  analyse  them 
and  try  to  find  out  what  they  meant,  to  interro- 
gate my  slightest  recollections:  for  how  could  I 
live  without  knowing  what  was  passing  within 
her  during  that  slow  death-struggle  of  our  love  ? 

"  Did  she  understand,  and  was  she  indulgent 
for  this  weakness  of  a  poor  heart  which  she  had 
believed  was  stronger  and  better  ?  Or  did  she 
esteem  me  contemptible,  and  were  her  silences 
full  only  of  disdain  ?  Or  did  these  silences  mask 
a  sentiment  similar  to  that  I  myself  entertained, 
the  despairing  regret  of  the  accident  that  had 
destroyed  something  of  my  soul  as  it  had  des- 
troyed her  beauty  ?....!  shall  never  know. 
Rack  my  memory  as  I  may  I  shall  not  know. 
She  took  her  secret  with  her.  She  never  ut- 
tered a  word  that  could  have  betrayed  it.  When 
you  passed  for  the  first  time  before  our  little 
villa,  looking  so  gay  in  its  bouquet  of  trees,  you 
did  not  suspect,  did  you,  monsieur,  that  they  were 


2 1 8  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

a  cartain  behind  which  was  beiiij^  enacted  a 
drama  that  must  seem  to  you  a  very  exceptional 
one  ?" 

"  Exceptional  ?  Not  so  very,  perhaps  ?  I 
have  often  thought  that  in  our  case,  hazard  sim- 
ply precipitated,  by  rendering  it  more  tragical, 
the  denouement  that  was  bound  to  come  sooner 
or  later.  For  love  is  not  eternal:  nothing  is 
eternal,  not  even  in  the  limited  sense  that  we  can 
accord  to  the  word.  Even  had  she  remained 
beautiful  we  should  eventually  have  ceased  to 
love  each  other  all  the  same,  should  we  not  ? 
Like  so  many  others  before  us  who  have  experi- 
enced this  same  illusion  of  eternity,  like  so  many 
others  who  will  experience  it  after  us,  and  who 
in  the  same  way  will  feel  it  breaking  in  their  fra- 
gile hearts,  like  so  many  poor  beings  who  have 
desired  the  impossible,  that  the  reality  has 
ankylosed,  petrified,  until  they  have  fallen  by  a 
fall  that  is  a  very  law  of  our  nature,  from  exalta- 
tion to  indifference — or  lower!  We  at  least  did 
not  drop  so  low;  something  preserved  us,  that 
very  thing  which  was  so  rare  and  so  tragical  in 
our  history — the  solitude  with  which  we  were 
surrounded,  our  isolation  in  the  midst  of  a  world 
whose  laws  we  had  broken,  the  horror  we  had  of 
renouncing  our  dream.  Our  love  was  mutilated, 
but  its  stump  moved  within  us;  if  sorrow  had 
replace!  joy  our  internal  life  remained  vibratory, 
feverish,  and  its  quivers  kept  us  drawn  towards 
each  other. 


M.  dc  Sjurbcllcs  Love  Tragedy.      219 

"  I  know  well  enough  that  in  conrse  of  time 
sentiments  become  dulled.  One  cannot  remain 
long  in  the  acute  state  in  which  we  were ;  one 
issues  from  it  as  one  escapes  from  all  strained 
and  insoluble  situations — through  habitude.  I 
sometimes  used  to  think  our  destiny  would  be 
to  gradually  abdicate  the  love  which  we  still 
desired,  and  to  become  resigned  to  the  existence 
which  was  our  lot.  With  the  aid  of  time  we 
should  no  doubt  have  done  so  and  have  found  a 
sort  of  equilibrium.  An  incident,  the  conse- 
quences of  which  we  could  not  foresee,  changed 
all  this. 

"  As  I  have  already  told  you,  monsieur,  our 
rupture  with  the  world  had  been  complete.  We 
had  accepted  it.  In  spite  of  the  misfortunes 
that  had  befallen  us,  in  spite  pf  the  doubts  which 
assailed  us,  we  never  made  any  attempt  to  re- 
new our  relations  with  it.  One  of  her  sisters 
had  alone  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  her. 
This  sister,  married  to  an  unknown  writer,  living 
in  Paris,  in  a  milieu  intelligent  and  independent, 
had,  if  not  excused,  at  least  understood  the  irre- 
sistible force  of  the  passion  that  had  thrown  us 
together,  more  especially  as  she  had  always 
manifested  an  enthusiastic  friendship  for  Mme. 

H ,  who  was  her  senior  and  more  beautiful. 

This  friendship  seemed  more  precious  to  my 
love  when  all  others  had  spurned  her.  Affec- 
tionate letters  were  exchanged  at  brief  inter- 
vals between  Paris  and  Weimar.     I  say  affection- 


2  20  TJic  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

ate,  monsieur,  not  confidential;  it  \va3  not  in  my 
love's  nature  to  be  communicative.  Never  did 
she  tell  her  sister  of  what  passed  between  us. 
So  reticent  was  she,  in  fact,  that  she  did  not  even 
inform  her  of  her  accident.  When  it  happened 
and  I  had  to  write  for  her,  I  was  instructed  to 
say  that  she  w^as  slightly  indisposed. 

"  A  short  while  ago  this  much-loved  sister  be- 
came seriously  ill.  Sue  wanted  to  see  my  love 
again;  and  a  telegram  from  her  husband  came 
urging  her  to  hurry  to  the  sick  woman's  bedside. 
She  left  at  once,  her  departure  having  been  de- 
cided upon  without  our  being  able  to  discuss 
the  many  inconveniences  that  might  attend  it, 
and  which  presented  themselves  to  my  mind  the 
same  evening  when,  returning  from  the  railway 
station,  I  for  the  first  time  in  two  years  found 
myself  alone  in  this  house  that  was  filled  with  so 
many  thoughts." 


Here  M.  de  Sourbelles  made  a  m.ovement  of 
unexpected  sympathy.  He  bent  towards  me 
and  took  my  hand. 

"  It  was  at  this  moment  that  I  made  your  ac- 
quaintance, monsieur,"  he  said.  "  The  dread  of 
solitude,  or  rather  the  imperious  need  I  felt  of 
fleeing  from  myself,  drove  me  to  the  Crown 
Prince  Hotel  where  I  met  you.  Your  conversa- 
tion did  me  a  great  deal  of  good;  I  had  been  so 
long  deprived  of  the  benefits  derived  from  asso- 


Jll.  (it-  Sourbclles  Love  Tragedy.      221 

ciation  with  men !  Therefore  it  was  not  without 
sadness,  or  even  without  shame,  that  I  resigned 
myself  to  breaking  with  you  as  I  did.  You  must 
have  thought  me  singular,  to  say  the  least.  But 
now  you  understand,  and  I  trust  that  if  my  con- 
duct towards  you — what  shall  I  say  ? — caused  you 
any  pain  or  offence,  you  will  bear  me  no  ill- 
will." 

I  pressed  his  hand,  which  he  had  left  in  mine, 
and  murmured  a  few  words  of  sympathy — awk- 
ward words,  I  fancy,  for  on  occasions  like  this 
one  is  always  maladroit  or  does  not  know  what 
to  say. 


"  Her  sister's  illness,"  continued  M.  de  Sour- 
belles,  "  having  taken  a  favorable  turn,  my  love 
returned.  While  she  had  been  away  I  had 
written  to  her  every  day;  she  had  replied  with 
less  regularity.  The  reserved  tone  of  her  letters 
occasioned  me  a  singular  inquietude.  Alone  in 
silence  I  could  feel  better  than  in  our  ordinary 
daily  life  what  was  separating  us,  the  thoughts, 
the  bitterness,  the  fears  she  did  not  avow,  the 
vague  danger  that  was  hanging  over  us.  There- 
fore I  awaited  her  with  the  presentiment  that 
her  return  would  inaugurate  a  new  phase  in  our 
existence,  and  in  my  impatience  to  see  her  again 
as  soon  as  her  arrival  was  announced  there  was 
almost  as  much  anguish  as  joy.  Nevertheless  I 
was  able  to  think  at  first  that  my  apprehensions 


'>'>'> 


The  Sacrifice  of  Silence, 


v-er2  unfounded.  You  must  remember  that  if 
there  was  no  more  love  between  us  there  were 
so  many  othsr  ties!  We  were  so  indissolubly 
united  in  the  desert  we  had  created  around  us, 
we  belonged  so  completely  to  each  other !  Sepa- 
rated, we  had  felt  with  a  new  intensity  the  weight 
of  our  solitude,  having  no  longer  the  resources  of 
our  union  to  oppose  to  the  cruelties  of  our  mem- 
ories. In  the  gladness  of  the  return,  in  the  com- 
fort w^e  fait  at  being  together  once  more  against 
the  hostile  world,  we  enjoyed  a  moment  of  for- 
getfulness,  almost  of  happiness.  Alas!  it  was 
but  a  moment! 

"  What  had  passed  during  her  short  return  to 
ordinary  life  ?  Did  she  experience  regrets  and 
remorse,  a  remorse  that  passion  had  ceased  to 
lull  and  that  reflection  had  awakened  ?  Did  she 
suddenly  suffer  at  being  a  pariah,  deprived  of 
the  joys  and  consolations  and  customs  of  the 
world's  life,  condemned  to  play  forever  the  com- 
edy of  love  which  was  palling  upon  her,  and  the 
wearisomeness  of  which  she  had  perhaps  never 
taken  into  consideration  ?  Was  it  simply  that 
she  had  had  the  leisure  to  investigate  the  causes 
from  which  we  were  suffering  and  had  recoiled 
from  the  abysses  that  she  saw  before  her  ? 

"  However  this  may  be,  whatever  may  have 
been  the  motives  which  brought  about  the 
change  I  soon  perceived  that  our  respective 
positions  were  no  longer  the  same.  Not  from 
any   precise   signs,  reproaches,  hard    words,  or 


M.  de  Sourbelles  Love  Tragedy. 


2^3 


family  squabbles;  nothing  of  the  kind  occurred 
between  us.  But  our  humor  was  undergoing  a 
transformation.  After  the  death  of  love  came 
that  of  the  sweet  and  tender  sentiments  that  had 
taken  its  place,  of  affection,  of  intimacy,  of  con- 
fidence. The  lie  that  was  our  life  became  com- 
plicated. It  was  no  longer  upon  a  single  point 
that  we  were  deceiving  each  other,  but  upon  all 
that  passed  within  us,  and  we  were  reduced  to  a 
continual  exercise  of  caution  to  prevent  our- 
selves from  manifesting  the  secret  impatience 
we  were  concealing  from  each  other.  Alas !  we 
could  not  hide  it.  Accustomed  as  we  were  to 
observe  each  other  ceaselessly,  to  spy  upon  each 
other,  to  divine  each  other,  we  were  the  one  to 
the  other  an  open  book,  a  book  begun  in  intoxi- 
cation, and  each  page  of  which  as  it  was  turned 
disillusioned  us  ...  .  Ah !  the  horror,  the 
horror,  the  awfulness  of  that  last  page !" 

M,  de  Sourbelles  had  become  calmer  in  the 
course  of  his  narrative.  This  is  the  habitual 
result  of  confidences,  which  will  ease  the  most 
heavily  burdened  hearts.  But  arrived  at  this 
point  his  painful  impressions  no  doubt  were 
aroused  again  with  all  their  torturing  acuteness. 
Seized  once  more  with  the  fever  of  movement 
he  rose,  paced  to  and  fro  with  great  agitation, 
went  into  the  next  room  and  returned.  He 
took  no  further  notice  of  me.  I  thought  he  had 
forgotten  that  I  was  there.  As  I  was  about  to 
rise  from  my  arm-chair,  however,  he  reseated 


2  24  The  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

himself,  and  went  on  with  long  pauses  between 
the  sentences: 

"  What  is  the  use  of  recounting  the  details  of 
her  last  moments  ?  If  you  knew,  if  you  could 
know,  how  I  adore  i  her  then  I  ....  I  no 
longer  saw  anything  but  the  suffering  of  which 
I  was  the  cause  ....  I  saw  but  death  that 
was  approaching  and  which  nothing,  nothing, 
could  avert  ....  death  which  she  had 
sought  ....  death  which  ends  all  .  ... 
which  left  me  alone,  with  the  memory  of  her, 
upon  the  desert  earth.  And  I  felt  that  she  was 
my  flesh  and  my  soul  ....  All  the  past 
whirled  around  me  ....  And  I  sobbed  at 
her  feet,  I  implored  her  pardon,  I  swore  that  I 
loved  her,  I  begged  her  not  to  die  ....  She 
endeavored  to  hide  her  suffering,  and  now  and 
then  tried  to  smile  at  me  ....  Oh  1  with 
what  a  smile,  in  which  there  was  such  resigna- 
tion! ....  At  first  she  had  refused  to  take 
any  remedy;  then,  yielding  to  my  prayers  she 
submitted  to  treatment  as  docilely  as  a  child 
.  .  .  .  She  knew  that  all  efforts  to  save  her 
were  useless,  that  death  was  coming. 

"  '  It  is  better  so  I'  she  said, '  during  a  moment's 
respite  from  pain.     '  I  am  happy,  I  die  in  love  I" 

"  She  held  my  hand  ....  She  did  not 
let  it  go  .  .  .  .  We  were  so  united,  so  close 
to  each  other !  ...  It  was  as  in  those  first 
days    ,     ,     ,     .     There  remained  nothing,  noth- 


M.  dc  Sour  belles  Love  Tr-agedy.      225 

ing   of   what    had    spoiled   our  love 

Death  restored  it  to  us.     .     .     .    death.     .    .     ." 

M.  de  Sour  belles  gave  way  to  his  grief  for  a 
space-  then  rising  abruptly  he  said: 

"  Come  and  see  her!" 

I  followed  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  re- 
dolent with  the  sweet,  heavy  perfume  of  the 
mortuary  flowers.  He  approached  the  bed,  and 
with  a  resolute  gesture  drew  aside  the  veil,  dis- 
closing the  dead  woman. 

The  traces  of  her  burns,  merged  as  they  were  in 
the  uniform  lividness  of  the  face  were  scarcely 
visible ;  the  features  had  recovered  their  beauty : 
a  beauty  calm,  noble,  serene,  that  contrasted  so 
strongly  with  the  agitation  of  her  life,  of  which  I 
had  just  heard  the  story !  I  know  that  her  soul  no 
longer  shone  in  those  extinct  eyes,  that  they  could 
not  betray  their  secrets;  but  it  was  in  vain  that 
my  imagination  sought  to  picture  this  noble  vis- 
age deformed  by  pain  or  by  passion. 

When  I  ceased  to  contemplate  it,  and  turned 
towards  M.  de  Sourbelles  I  saw  that  he  was 
kneeling  beside  the  bed  and  weeping. 


EPILOGUE. 

"Well  done!  You  are  a  capital  story  teller," 
said  Portal    when  he    understood  that    Jacques 

D had  finished.     "  Only  your  story  is   not 

complete.  Your  M.  de  Sourbelles,  I  imagine, 
did  not  pass  the  rest  of  his  existence  weeping  for 
his  mistress.     What  became  of  him  afterwards  ?" 

"  There  are  beings,"  replied  Jacques,  "  who 
seem  to  live  only  for  a  single  moment,  as  there 
are  flowers  that  only  bloom  once.  After  the  su- 
preme episode  which  has  developed  their  soul  to 
the  limits  of  its  power,  what  does  it  matter  where 
they  elect  to  live  or  how  they  pass  their  days  ? 

"  After  the  funeial  of  his  love,  as  he  liked  to 
call  her,  M.  de  Sourbelles  quitted  Weimar,  and 
went  to  visit  that  sister  whom  the  dead  woman 
had  loved.  I  did  not  expect  ever  to  see  him 
again.  I  ran  across  him,  however,  last  year,  in 
one  of  those  summer  resorts  where  most  un- 
looked  for  meetings  often  take  place — at  Houl- 
gate,  it  was.  We  spent  a  rainy  evening  together 
strolling  up  and  down  the  little  promenoir.  The 
plaints  of  the  distant  sea,  which  the  low  tide  had 
borne  away  fell  faintly  upon  our  ears,  and  occa- 
sionally bursts  of  music  from  the  casino  orchestra 
reached  us.  He  told  me  of  the  ennui  of  his 
[226] 


ilogne.  22  J 

hours  of  idleness,  of  his  aimless  actions,  of  the 
memories  in  his  heart  that  swayed  him  from  re- 
grets to  remorse  without  cease.  '  And  I  do  not 
die!'  he  said  among  other  things.  '  One  does 
not  die,  one  does  not  kill  one's  self,  one  drags  on 
with  one's  sorrow,  one  becomes  accustomed  to 
one's  vulture.  And  I  am  not  alone  of  my  kind, 
believe  me.  There  are  many  others  like  me,  I 
am  sure,  who  come  and  go,  eat  and  drink, 
who  sleep  even,  who  do  and  say  no  mat- 
ter what  and  who  are  tortured  by  invisible 
wounds.  I  have  met  a  few  such,  here  and  there. 
They  did  not  confide  in  me,  nor  I  in  them. 
We  talked  politics,  argued  fine  arts,  played  at 
billiards  or  whist — and  beneath  the  insignifi- 
cance of  our  remarks,  I  felt  that  they  were 
brothers,  yes,  brothers  by  silence  and  suffering !' 
He  had  aged,  though  not  so  very  much,  and  his 
voice  sounded  strangely,  like  a  voice  heard  from 
a  distance.  I  w';s  moved  when  I  quitted  him : 
he  was  nothing  but  a  poor,  drifting  wreck." 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  Portal.  "  The  next  time 
you  meet  him  he  will  have  been  consoled.  Per- 
haps he  was  even  then  consoled,  on  that  beach 
at  Houlgate.  I  have  an  idea  that  your  imagina- 
tion counts  for  not  a  little  in  his  despair.  Be- 
sides, permit  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  see  what 
your  story  proves.  You  have  told  it  to  demon- 
strate to  us  that  illegitimate  lovers  are  wrong  in 
bidding  good  bye  to  each  other  peaceably,  once 
their  little  business  is  discovered,  and  returning 


2  28  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

home.  But  I  think  more  than  ever  that  they  are 
a  thousand  times  right !  Would  you  have  it  so 
that  one  couldn't  engage  in  one  of  these  adven- 
tiires  without  its  ending  in  a  tragical  catastrophe 
similar  to  this  one,  which  caused  you  such  emo- 
tion ?  No,  no,  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think 
that  death  is  the  good  sister  of  love.  Love  is  an 
exquisite  thing  and  I  don't  quite  see  how  we 
could  get  along  without  it,  whereas  the  other.  .  . 
Brrr!" 

Then  turning  to  me  he  asked : 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it,  monsieur. 
Aren't  you  of  the  same  opinion  ? 

Jacques  and  I  looked  at  each  other  and  I  re- 
plied : 

"  Of  course !" 

Jacques  understood  me  and  added : 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  after  all!" 

And  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Don't  make  any  mistake,"  remarked  Portal. 
"  We  have  done  with  romanticism.  The  best 
thing  we  can  do  in  this  world,  which  would  be  a 
dull  place  indeed  if  we  didn't  throw  a  little  gaiety 
into  it,  is  to  amuse  ourselves  as  much  as  we 
can." 

"  Evidently,"  acquiesced  Jacques,  who  like 
myself  had  concluded  that  it  would  be  a  waste 
of  time  to  discuss  such  questions  with  one  whose 
way  of  looking  at  things  was  so  entirely  different 
from  his  own. 

We  l-sft  together,  my  friend  ^nd  I.     Outside  I 


Epilogue.  229 

began  to  discuss  Portal,  but  he  changed  the  con- 
versation. As  I  had  more  than  once  remarked 
when  he  was  offended  Jacques  preferred  to  keep 
silent.  Therefore  I  did  not  insist  and  we  walked 
on  together,  each  engrossed  in  his  own  thoughts. 
We  soon  took  leave  of  each  other  and  I  returned 
horns,  reflecting  much  upon  the  story  Jacques 
had  told,  the  conversation  to  which  it  had  given 
rise,  and  the  conclusions  Portal  had  drawn  from 
it.  And  once  more  I  felt  a  great  pity  for  poor 
mankind.  Men  are  not  bad,  even  in  their  worst 
faults.  And  even  if  they  were  their  immense 
faculty  for  suffering  would  excuse  in  ennobling 
them.  What  rancor  can  be  held  against  them 
for  the  wrong  they  have  done  either  to  that  in- 
sensible abstraction  the  body  social  or  to  their 
own  brethren:  yea,  what  rancor  can  be  held 
against  those  who  are  their  own  torturers  ?  In 
learning  to  know  them  we  pardon,  and  some- 
times pity  them. 

I  sought  to  analyse  the  sentiments  of  the  un- 
happy M.  de  Sourbelles,  whose  history  haunted 
my  mind:  I  measured  the  space  between  his  up- 
ward love-impelled  flight  and  his  fall  into  the 
nothingness  of  extinct  love;  I  admired  his 
patience  and  submission. 

Then  I  forgot  him.  I  thought  confusedly  of 
other  histories,  more  or  less  similar  to  his, 
that  I  had  become  aware  of,  or  guessed  at,  or 
heard  of,  with  the  details  of  which  I  was  imper- 
fectly acquainted,  the   heroes   of  which   I   had 


230  TJie  Sacrifice  of  Silence. 

judged  with  severity,  sometimes  with  malevo- 
lence, and  there  recurred  to  me  the  words  of  the 
poet :  "  If  I  were  God,  I  would  take  pity  upon 
the  heart  of  man."  Beautiful  words,  of  deep 
meaning  and  endless  repercussion !  For  what  a 
wealth  of  sentiment,  what  treasures  of  tender- 
ness, kindness  and  courage  are  often  lost  sight 
of  in  what  we  designate  as  evil!  What  noble 
energies  are  sometimes  expended  by  two  hearts 
that  seek  to  come  together  and  which  in  break- 
ing the  numerous  obstacles  that  separate  them 
are  broken  themselves !  How  many  ties  that  we 
condemn  are  far  better  than  those  woven  by 
our  laws!  How  many  sacrifices  made  to  the 
fault  of  love  are  as  pure,  purer  perhaps,  than 
those  made  to  virtue !  Yet  we  judge,  we  con- 
demn, we  disdain,  we  hate,  without  knowing, 
without  understanding,  proud  of  our  codes,  sure 
of  our  laws. 

And  as  I  reflected  upon  these  things  I  fell 
a- dreaming  for  an  instant  of  a  world  where,  in 
default  of  God,  even  man  would  take  pity  on  the 
heart  of  man. 


THE  END. 


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